Doubtful.
Very, very doubtful.
Behind me, a sound cuts through the rainfall's steady percussion, piercing the white noise of drops hitting concrete and car roofs and trash bins. Sharp, rhythmic, familiar in a way that makes my chest constrict. Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
The cadence is unmistakable, stilettos on pavement, moving fast. Not the measured, confident stride I've watched navigate office corridors and conference rooms. This is urgent. Reckless. The kind of pace that risks twisted ankles and broken heels.
Running.
Someone is running after me through the rain.
I freeze. Every muscle locks, warrior instinct warring with hope warring with the certainty that looking back will hurt worse than anything. That seeing her face, her determination, her sharp eyeliner starting to run in the rain, will destroy whatever fragile control I've maintained.
The click-clack grows louder, closer, accompanied now by breathless panting. She's not built for running. Too much time behind desks, not enough conditioning for sprints. But she's doing it anyway, chasing me down the street in designer shoes that cost more than my entire wardrobe.
"Thraka!" Her voice, sharp and commanding even winded. "Thraka, stop!"
I stop. Can't help it. Three months of conditioning, of learning to respond to that particular tone, the one she uses when issuing directives or correcting my reports or gasping my name in the dark.
Turn around, something whispers deep in that part of me that still believes in impossible things, in glory and honor and warriors who fight for what matters. Turn and see what she's willing to risk, what she's willing to sacrifice, her composure, her dignity, those ridiculously expensive shoes, just to catch you.
I turn.
The movement feels slow, weighted with significance, like pivoting to face an enemy on the battlefield or turning to witness the sunrise after a night of siege. My boots scrape against wet concrete. Rain hammers my shoulders, my back, streams down my face. The world narrows to this single moment, this rotation of my body, this acceptance that whatever comes next will change everything.
I turn, and my heart stops.
She stands fifteen feet back, soaked through, blazer clinging to her frame, hair plastered to her skull, mascara tracking down her cheeks in dark rivers. Her chest heaves with exertion. She kicked off the stilettos at some point, holds them in one hand, standing barefoot on rain-slicked pavement.
She looks destroyed, utterly, completely wrecked in a way I've never seen before, not in three months of working beside her, watching her demolish incompetent colleagues with surgical precision, seeing her maintain absolute composure through budget disasters and boardroom battles.
She looks beautiful, more beautiful than she's ever been in those perfect power suits with every hair in place, every line of eyeliner sharp enough to cut, every detail precisely controlled and optimized for maximum professional impact.
"What are you doing?" I ask, because words need to fill this space between us, this charged air crackling with rain and unspoken things, with everything we've been to each other and everything we might lose.
"Stopping you." She gasps, catches her breath, one hand pressed to her ribs like they ache, like she ran further than her body was prepared for, pushed past the limits of what her spreadsheet-planning mind would consider reasonable or efficient. "From making the stupidest decision of your life."
"I am saving your career," I say, and even I can hear the way my voice cracks on the words, the way the truth of it sits heavy in my chest like armor that doesn't fit right anymore.
"I don't care about my career!" The words explode from her, raw and desperate and so unlike the controlled, measured Orla Peace who schedules her coffee breaks and color-codes her calendar and has contingency plans for natural disasters.
The words echo off buildings, bounce back at us. Her eyes go wide, like she shocked herself, like she didn't mean to say it out loud, didn't mean to admit that particular truth to the world or herself or me.
"Yes, you do." I keep my voice gentle. "You care about efficiency and protocols and five-year plans. You care about quarterly projections and budget reports and proper filing systems. You care about this."
"I care about you more!"
Rain hammers down harder, drowning the city in white noise. Cars pass, throwing up spray. Somewhere a horn honks. The world continues its relentless spin, unconcerned with two figures standing in the downpour having the kind of conversation that should happen in private, in warmth, anywhere but here.
But she's here anyway.
Barefoot, drenched, ruined makeup streaming down her cheeks in dark rivers, professional facade completely shattered like safety glass after impact.
Here for me.
Standing in the rain, having chased me down these city streets, having abandoned everything she holds sacred, order, control, the carefully maintained image of corporate perfection, all of it discarded on wet pavement like those expensive stilettos dangling from her fingers.
Here. For. Me.
