Still, I stood there. Unmoving. Untouched.
Because this moment was mine.
Not his.
Not ours.
Mine.
The girl he married didn’t get a say.
But this version of me—the one soaking, seething, aching—she did.
I stayed where I was, every muscle taut with anticipation. My heart thudded against my ribs like it couldn’t decide if it wanted him to touch me… or keep his distance.
And still, I didn’t look at him.
I just stood in the storm I didn’t create—but claimed anyway.
Because maybe this was the only way I knew how to say:
I’m not running.
But you don’t get to take me—I have to give myself.
He stepped out of the car slowly; the rain pouring down over him, clinging to his lashes, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. The storm howled around us, thunder low and constant, wind lashing through the trees—but in that moment, the world shrank to just him and me.
Then he started walking.
Each step sent a tremor through my chest, the weight of the night pressing in with every inch he closed between us. My breath caught. The rain soaked through my clothes, cold against my skin—but none of it mattered compared to the heat radiating from him. Compared to the look in his eyes.
He reached me.
And without a word, he grabbed my waist.
And kissed me like I was already his. Like I had always been.
It wasn’t rushed.
It was feral.
Desperate.
Slow.
Reverent.
Like he was memorizing me. Like he was punishing himself for waiting this long.
My fingers tangled in his wet hair, pulling him closer, and I kissed him back with everything I had buried deep—every ounce of anger, fear, doubt, desire. It poured out of me like lightning, crashing into him.
I didn’t care that we were soaked. That we might’ve looked ridiculous, clinging to each other in the middle of a storm like some tragic lovers in a story gone off the rails.
All that mattered was him.
His mouth. His hands. His body pressing into mine with the kind of need that made my heart race and my knees weaken.
The rest of the world faded.
