The house is still when he wakes, disrupting the gathering quiet with gasping breaths. Dim light slants through bay windows, clashing with the blue flashing logo on the television screen that tells him over and over that the movie has stopped; that it's time to move on to a better activity.
As Jack rolls off the couch, it squeaks. The sound echoes in the hall, undercut by the pitter-patter of something far more soothing. The rain here falls softly, adhering to a rhythm (even the thunder rolls along).
The television shuts off with a snap, static electricity dancing over the screen just before it flashes dark. Jack tosses the remote behind him, knowing he won't remember where he set it the next time anyway.
He finds evidence of her in the kitchen, their shared popcorn bowl resting in the sink. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, and he wonders fleetingly if she ever marvels at their domesticity like he does, fascinated by every dirty dish and abandoned chore.
The rain slants sharply in the air, pelting the house and creating mosaic patterns on the glass. Drops join drops, creating rivulets that pool at the corners of the kitchen windows.
Jack cannot remember if he closed the ones upstairs or not. It's not something he thinks about anymore, Los Angeles is kind to its citizens, most of the time.
He wanders up the stairs, finding Aaron hypnotized by a video game, the kind adults cannot possibly fathom the appeal of, because they cannot properly hold the controller. Jack watches for a moment, chuckling as Aaron leans to the left, moving instinctively and simultaneously with the onscreen character.
"It's time to hop in bed, bud," he tells the boy, who sighs loudly at the interruption and swears he will do so as soon as he finishes this game. Jack hasn't got the heart to argue.
"Okay. Good night."
"Love you," Aaron calls out, absentmindedly.
"Love you, too."
The noise of the rain grows louder as he approaches their bedroom. He cringes, thinking of ruined carpeting and stained linens, but finds the windows shut and locked.
And the bed empty.
Kate is standing on their porch in the rain, staring off into the distance. Clouds build in the sky above her, grey skies rapidly fading into blackness as the evening dies. Her hair, usually so perfect now, hangs loose against her back. The rain has twisted it into soft ropes that coil into familiar curves, so dark they could almost be black.
She turns and smiles at him as he slides the open to join her, looking out at the storm. Turning her face up for a kiss, she moves closer to him. Her head settles on his shoulder as they both lean on the slick railing.
"It's kind of nice, isn't it?" she says, after a long moment.
"Mmm?"
"The rain. It's kind of nice."
"Yeah," he agrees, then laughs, "until we walk inside to the air conditioning."
She shakes her head, not upset with him, but on a different wavelength altogether. Jack falls silent, watching her face, searching for a clue to her thoughts.
"Before, I used to hate it," she begins, glancing at him quickly, "the rain. It complicates everything and it's just so…messy."
Kate shifts her weight next to him, and Jack notices the drops have formed their patterns on her skin, patterns he can alter by running his fingertips across her arm. He reaches out, playing with the rain on her body.
"Then, on the island," he stops, fingers hovering just over her wrist as she continues, "it just would come out of nowhere. And it would pound down on us, so hard and…wet."
She wrinkles her nose, making a face.
"So, you always had to be prepared, only there's nothing to prepare with, because what are you going to do, take an umbrella with you?"
They smile together, conspirators in memory.
"But then, I don't know, I kind of got used to it. It's only water, right? And it felt kind of good, like getting washed clean," she tilts her head, lost in the past, "I liked the feeling, when it was over, and your skin kind of tingled, you know?"
Kate takes his hand, interlacing their fingers, not really expecting an answer from him.
"You used to drive me crazy in the rain," he confesses, surprising her (and himself).
"How?" it's her turn to watch him, he can feel her eyes sliding over his face.
"You would just keep doing whatever it was you were doing, like no force of nature was going to stop you," he says, "I always wanted to duck under the nearest tree, but there goes Kate, off to pick mangos or something. Couldn't not continue then, I'd look like a sissy."
He makes her laugh, a real one that lights up her face. He's getting better at this, being open and relaxed with someone—the one—that matters.
"Plus, you always looked really good. Your hair gets all dark, makes your eyes stand out, all blue…and whatever you were wearing would get all clingy."
"Like now, for example?" she's being coy, biting her lip and stepping back for his inspection.
"Like now, Kate," he confirms, rolling his eyes.
"I see," she says, "and why, exactly, did that drive you crazy?"
She can be such a tease, when she wants to be.
But he doesn't feel like playing right now, so he leans in and kisses her (like he wanted to every time she walked past him—in the rain or not—when they were on that godforsaken island). Her skin is cool, and he feels all the places their bodies meet as she wraps her arms around his neck and presses closer to him, kissing back.
Kate invades all of him as she explores his mouth, pulling away to lead him to the sliding door, to their room, to their bed. Jack's hands are in her hair, caught in the soaked tangles, as she peels the t-shirt from his chest. He's stuck on her jeans, which hug her curves enticingly, but refuse to slide off until he yanks the wet material (decidedly unromantically).
She might be laughing, but he's not sure, because he covers her mouth with another kiss, guiding her back onto the pillows. His fingers trace the revealed contours of her body, he can taste the rain on her skin as he moves over her. She sighs, arching her back and inviting him in. They move together, continuing in this familiar dance as the rain shifts to a light mist outside their window.
Later, the raindrops on her skin are nearly dry, disappearing as if they never existed on her at all. Kate lies sprawled out in sleep beside him, and Jack thinks about her on the island, her words on the porch, her life before (mostly about her).
He'll wash himself clean in every rainstorm that hits L.A. if he has to, so long as it keeps her happy, and here, with him.