Then memory hit.
The fights.
The shouting.
The way my chest used to tighten when I heard her key in the lock.
The way love with her always came with a cost I didn’t realize until I was already paying it.
I stood there, frozen.
She saw me.
Her face changed instantly—shock first, then relief, then something desperate and hopeful that made my throat close.
“Ethan,” she said, like my name was a prayer she’d been holding in.
She didn’t wait for me to answer.
She crossed the street fast, shoes slipping slightly on the wet pavement, breath coming hard. When she reached me, she stopped short, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to touch me anymore.
Up close, she smelled like rain and soap and something achingly familiar.
“I didn’t know if you’d be here,” she said. “I—I walked by your place first.”
My chest felt tight. Too tight.
“You shouldn’t be out in this,” I said, and hated myself for how gentle it sounded.
She laughed softly, the sound brittle. “You always say that.”
Silence fell between us, heavy and charged.
Her eyes searched my face like she was looking for permission. Or forgiveness. Or both.
“I sent you an email,” she said quietly.
“I read it.”
Her breath caught.
“And?”
I didn’t answer.
Because the truth was complicated.
Because standing here with her, soaked and shaking and beautiful, made it feel like the universe was nudging me toward a mistake I already knew too well.
“I meant it,” she said quickly, words tumbling out now. “All of it. About trying again. About not letting fear win. The world is—God, it’s so broken right now. And I just keep thinking—what if we’re wasting time?”
Rain ran down her lashes like tears she refused to shed.
“I know I messed up,” she whispered. “I know I hurt you. But I loved you. I still love you.”
There it was.
The thing that always undid me.
