Rain's Point of View
He saw her once, five years ago, and never forgot her.
I was sixteen. Bleeding from the ribs. Kneeling behind a half-collapsed wall on the outskirts of Naples. The first real job I'd ever been sent on—one that went sideways fast. I'd been ambushed, separated from Ren, and bleeding too much to think straight.
She found me.
Just a girl on a school trip, maybe fifteen, maybe sixteen. Dressed in a ridiculously oversized pink hoodie, a yellow skirt with white daisies, and a flower crown she'd probably made herself.
She never asked who I was. Never panicked at the blood. Just knelt beside me like I was some injured bird.
"You're hurt," she whispered, voice trembling. "But I know how to help."
She took off her hoodie. Wrapped it tight around my side. Sat beside me for an hour and talked nonsense about the stars and how rain always feels softer in cities with music. Then, when the sirens came—she left. Disappeared like smoke.
I never knew her name. Never spoke a word.
But I never forgot her.
Not her voice. Not her eyes. Not the absurd daisy stickers on her nails.
And today—five years later, on the stone steps of the Università di Firenze Facoltà di Giurisprudenza—I see her again.
She barrels around the corner, arms flailing, her knee-length black hair flying behind her like a cape.
There's a coffee cup in her hand. More foam than drink. A mountain of whipped cream, a marshmallow or three, rainbow sprinkles, and a sinful drizzle of chocolate and caramel down the sides. It's a dessert pretending to be caffeine.
She's not looking. Of course she's not.
I'm halfway through a coded message from Istanbul when—
Crash.
The coffee explodes against my chest. Sticky. Sweet. Instant.
She freezes mid-step. Her mouth forms an "O" the size of Tuscany. Then she lets out a gasp that's half squeak, half disaster alarm.
"Oh no. No no no. OhmygodI'mso—wait, don't move!"
She dives into the tote bag slung across her shoulder like she's summoning magic. Out comes a crumpled napkin. Blue. Covered in tiny sunflowers. She starts dabbing my shirt, cheeks flaming, hair slipping forward like curtains.
"It's just a little marshmallow! I swear I can fix this—don't look at me like that!"
I raise an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Like you're silently judging every life decision I've ever made."
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Instead, I look at her properly. Now that she's close. Really close.
The eyes. Still the same warm brown. Big and bright and devastating.
The voice. Still the same musical cadence. Unafraid. Disarming.
The chaos. Oh god, the chaos is exactly the same.
I say her name. Quietly. Too quietly.
She blinks. "Sorry, what?"
"Sky," I repeat.
She freezes. Slowly looks up, eyes narrowing just a bit.
"Have we met?"
"Yes," I say, even though she doesn't remember.
A flicker of confusion crosses her face, then vanishes beneath another wave of anxious babble. "Right, yeah, I meet a lot of people—I mean, I talk a lot. Probably too much. Not in like an annoying way, I hope, but I do have this thing where I give everyone nicknames, and oh god, you're soaked. I think I saw a tissue pack in my shoe earlier, which sounds weird, but it was a clean shoe, I swear—"
I'm soaked in syrup. My perfectly pressed black shirt is ruined. I have a meeting with the board in twenty minutes. And I don't care.
Because she's standing in front of me. The girl who once held my blood in her hands like it was holy.
She doesn't remember me. Not yet.
But I remember everything.