What the Rain Left Behind chapter 5
The next morning arrived wrapped in silver fog and quiet guilt.
Erica had barely slept. The storm had stopped, but its echo remained inside her—the pulse of rain against glass, the weight of Dylan's lips, the sound of her own heart betraying her.
She told herself it meant nothing. She had to. Because the alternative meant admitting that years of healing had been a lie.
The office felt colder that day, despite the air conditioning being the same as always. Colleagues chatted, printers hummed, phones rang—but the rhythm of work couldn't drown out the memory of last night.
When she walked into her glass-walled office, a small envelope waited on her desk. Her pulse tripped. She knew that handwriting.
You deserve peace, even if it isn't with me.
She swallowed hard. He'd left before sunrise. Of course he had. Dylan always left first—it was his way of winning.
"Morning, Erica."
Nora appeared in the doorway, holding a stack of reports. "You okay? You look like you wrestled with a thunderstorm."
"I'm fine."
Nora arched a brow. "If you say so. By the way, the London board wants your projections early. And Mr. Cross asked if you'd be free for lunch—strictly business, he said."
Erica gave a small laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course he did."
Later, at the café
The restaurant was quiet, all muted wood and soft jazz. Dylan was already there, jacket off, sleeves rolled, the same calm confidence she both envied and resented.
"Thanks for coming," he said as she sat.
"I didn't have much of a choice. You're my boss now, remember?"
He flinched, almost imperceptibly. "I didn't want it to be like this."
"Then how did you want it?"
He hesitated, gaze steady on her. "I wanted a chance to make things right."
Her laugh was brittle. "You think a lunch meeting can fix three years of silence?"
"No. But it's a start."
The waiter came and went; plates arrived they barely touched. Conversation danced around safe topics—quarterly goals, client expectations, upcoming audits—but every word carried the shadow of the night before.
Finally, she pushed her plate aside. "Dylan, why now? Why reappear just to remind me how easily you left?"
He leaned forward, voice low. "Because I never stopped wanting to come back. I just thought you'd built a life that didn't need me."
Her throat tightened. "I did. Until you walked in and tore the floor out from under me."
Silence. Then softer: "I'm sorry."
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to. But belief was a luxury she'd lost.
"Sorry doesn't undo damage," she whispered.
"I know." His hand brushed hers—lightly, barely there. "But maybe it can start to rebuild."
The contact was a spark—dangerous, familiar, alive.
Her pulse stumbled.
She should have pulled away. She didn't.
For a long moment they sat like that, the noise of the café fading, the world shrinking to the small space between their joined hands.
"Erica," he murmured, "if this is wrong, tell me."
Her voice came out as a breath. "Everything about us is wrong."
"Then why does it still feel right?"
She didn't have an answer.
Outside, the rain began again—soft, persistent, like the sky couldn't let go either.
When they left the café, he walked her to her car. The air smelled like wet asphalt and something bittersweet.
She turned to him. "This can't keep happening."
"I know."
"We have to be professional."
He nodded once. "Then let's start tomorrow."
And before she could protest, he leaned down and kissed her again—brief, restrained, the kind of kiss that promised more than it delivered.
It left her trembling. It left them both ruined for the idea of pretending.
As he walked away, she got into her car, breathing him in the way one breathes a storm before it breaks again.
On the seat beside her lay the project folder he'd slipped into her hands.
When she opened it, a note fell out.
Dinner tonight. Not business.
She stared at it for a long, dangerous moment.
Then she started the car.
The restaurant Dylan chose wasn't one of their usual sleek, glass-and-chrome places.
It was a quiet rooftop garden lit by warm fairy lights, rain still whispering on the awning above.
Tables were spaced wide apart; a soft piano played somewhere unseen.
Erica hesitated at the entrance. It wasn't businesslike. It wasn't neutral.
It was intimate.
Dylan stood when he saw her, pulling out her chair the way he used to.
"Thank you for coming," he said. His voice was careful—steady—but there was a tremor underneath, like he was afraid she might vanish again.
She sat. "I almost didn't."
"I know."
The waiter poured wine and disappeared. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
"I didn't ask you here to talk about work," Dylan began. "You already know that."
"I assumed." She traced the rim of her glass. "But why drag me into your nostalgia?"
He smiled sadly. "Because it's all I have left."
She looked up, startled. He met her gaze squarely.
"Three years, Erica. I told myself I was doing the right thing—stepping back so you could have the life you deserved. But all I did was watch you build walls high enough to keep even sunlight out."
She wanted to be angry. She wanted to remind him of the nights she'd cried alone, the months she'd spent pretending his name meant nothing. But instead, she said quietly, "You made that choice."
"I did." He nodded. "And I've regretted it every day."
Dinner arrived, steaming and untouched. They spoke in half-sentences, circling old wounds without naming them. Every glance carried a memory; every silence, a heartbeat.
When the rain eased, Dylan stood and offered his hand. "Walk with me?"
Erica hesitated only a second before taking it.
The rooftop was empty except for them. The city below glittered under a thin mist.
He stopped near the railing, still holding her hand.
"Do you remember Paris?" he asked.
She almost smiled. "How could I forget? You got lost, and I found you arguing with a street vendor in French you barely spoke."
He laughed softly. "You said you'd never travel with me again."
"And yet we did. Twice."
Silence settled again, tender and raw.
He looked at her then—not as a CEO, not as the man who'd left, but as the one who'd never truly let go.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
She didn't.
He stepped closer, his thumb brushing a stray raindrop from her cheek.
"Erica…"
Her breath caught. The air between them felt electric, trembling with everything they'd buried.
When his lips met hers, it wasn't a question this time—it was an answer.
The kiss deepened slowly, like rediscovering something long forgotten.
Her hands found his shoulders, his heart beat fast under her palm.
It wasn't perfect; it was desperate, messy, real.
When they finally broke apart, both were shaking.
"This is madness," she whispered.
"Maybe," he said, voice rough. "But it's ours."
The world blurred around them—the lights, the rain, the noise of the city fading into the rhythm of their breathing.
They stood like that for a long moment before he took her hand again.
"Come on," he murmured. "Let's go somewhere warm."
He drove her home in silence. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving the streets shining and empty.
At her door, she turned to him. "You shouldn't come up."
He nodded. "I know."
But neither moved.
She unlocked the door and looked back once. He was still there, rain-damp hair falling into his eyes, a thousand things unsaid between them.
"Goodnight, Dylan."
He smiled faintly. "Not goodbye?"
Her heart twisted. "Not tonight."
She went inside, closing the door softly behind her.
Inside the quiet of her apartment, she leaned against the door, breathless, every nerve alive.
She didn't know what tomorrow would bring—but for the first time, she didn't dread it.
To be continued...