It’s cold outside. And damp. Rain is pattering against the windows, they can hear the wind rustling in the trees behind them, they can almost hear the waves lapping on the beach.
But he’s warm. The blankets are wrapped tight around him. And she’s here, smiling up at him.
“It’s raining.” Her voice is soft, sleep still laced in the words.
He nuzzles into her, basking in the sound of her gentle laugh. “Hmm. It never rained in the Glade.”
“Vince says it might rain a lot here.”
“Good for the plants, probably.”
Her hands trace his face. “Good for the soul.”
Then she’s slipping away from him, out of his arms and out of the bed. She stands by the door, hand extended to him, smile bright.
He follows. Slowly, but he always follows.
Standing in the doorway, their blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, he watches her leap into the rain. Bare feet splashing in the puddles, the damp grass between her toes, hair gathering droplets.
It’s beautiful, watching her move. So full of joy and so full of life after everything they went through.
He leaves behind the quilt and the warmth of their cabin.
The rain patters against his skin, the chill will reach him soon, but her hands are still warm when they hold his face. Her laugh is still bright.
It never rained in the glade.
He hopes it rains again here.
