The next Friday, just like the last, it rained.
Not the loud, stormy kind—but soft and warm, like the sky was trying to whisper instead of shout. Drops slid lazily down the windows, the air smelled like wet earth and longing, and Emmanuel found himself walking alone beneath the trees near the Arts building.
Then he saw her.
Ella.
Standing without an umbrella, letting the rain kiss her skin. Her arms were crossed gently, face tilted toward the sky, as if she was listening to something only she could hear.
He stopped a few feet away.
"Do you always do this?" he asked, voice gentle over the rhythm of falling rain.
She didn't startle this time. She turned slowly, her eyes soft, lips parted just a little.
"Do what?"
"Stand in the rain like a scene from a novel."
She smiled—a real one this time. Not the half-curves she usually gave, but something unguarded, like sunlight breaking through grey clouds.
"Maybe I like how quiet it gets," she said. "How honest everything feels."
He stepped closer, closing the space between them.
"You're beautiful," he said quietly, the words falling without hesitation.
She looked at him—blinking rain from her lashes, that unreadable expression flickering across her face again.
"You don't have to say that."
"I'm not saying it because I have to," he said, voice low. "I'm saying it because it's true. You're different. Real. And lately, I can't stop thinking about you."
The rain fell between them, soft but steady.
Ella looked down, then back up. "I don't want to be a story you write and forget."
"You're not," he said. "You're the story I want to stay in."
A long pause.
She stepped forward. Just a little. Just enough for him to feel the heat of her presence despite the coolness of the rain.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
He swallowed. "So am I."
Then he reached out—not to pull her close, not to force anything—but just to offer his hand. Open. Waiting.
She looked at it, then at him.
And slowly, she slipped her fingers into his.
It was the smallest touch, but to Emmanuel, it felt like the earth had stopped spinning for a second.
They stood like that—under the rain, fingers intertwined, hearts loud in their silence.
There was no kiss.
No dramatic confession.
Just quiet, undeniable closeness.
For Emmanuel, who had known only thrill and chase, this felt like the realest thing he'd ever touched.
And for Ella, who had known only walls and goodbyes—this felt like maybe, just maybe, the beginning of something she could trust.