Rain's POV:
I walk up to his bed and pause at the side table.
The bowl of pasta sits there, untouched.
It's gone dull now, the sauce congealed, the fork abandoned beside it — and the sight hits me in the chest.
A quick, sharp guilt.
Then I swallow it down. I can't afford guilt tonight.
Not if I want answers.
The room is dim.
Only the thin wash of moonlight spills through the curtains, silvering the sheets, the floor, his shoulders.
It smells like him — clean soap, citrus, that warm metallic note underneath that always reminds me of rain hitting railings.
He doesn't say anything.
He just shifts, wordless, like he knew I was coming.
Like he had already made space for me.
I climb onto the bed.
The mattress dips, bringing me closer to him than I need to be.
Close enough that the heat from his body seeps into my skin.
Close enough that my pulse starts misbehaving.
"What happened? Everything okay?"
His voice is quiet, scraped thin.
