The rain arrived softly.
Not violent.
Not cruel.
Just steady enough to soak through our clothes and make the night feel farther away from the rest of the world.
We stood there beneath it in careful silence,
speaking in calm tones meant more for the soul than the ear.
Desire moved between us quietly.
Patient.
Certain.
You looked beautiful in that weather.
Like someone carved from old longing and midnight resolve.
Neither of us rushed for shelter.
There was something sacred in enduring the cold together.
Something stoic about letting the rain collect along our skin while the city lights blurred around us like fading memories.
And suddenly restraint became difficult to remember.
Our lips grazed each other with growing haste.
Hands wandering like they already knew the roads beneath unfamiliar skin.
The kind of touch that does not introduce itself.
Only returns.
As though somewhere deep beneath thought,
our bodies had recognized an old disaster.
Lovers before language.
Before this lifetime.
Before these names.
There was hunger in the way we held each other,
but also remembrance.
A strange grief woven into tenderness.
Like two souls stumbling back into a room they abandoned centuries ago,
only to find the fire still warm.
The rain kept falling around us.
Down your neck.
Across my hands.
Against mouths too occupied to speak clearly anymore.
And for one suspended moment beneath the trembling streetlights,
it felt impossible that this was our first time here.
Because some part of us had already spent countless nights this way—
locked in embrace,
learning each other slowly,
while the world dissolved quietly beyond the storm.
annaxmalina
blakekathryn
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
romaincrisis
2087
