It was raining the night it happened.
Not the kind of dramatic thunderstorm you'd expect in a movie, but a soft, persistent drizzle that made everything in the city glisten under street lamps like it had been freshly washed and left out to breathe.
Clare hadn't planned to call him.
But after a brutal day—one professor dismissing her article pitch as "sentimental fluff," an accidental coffee spill on her only printed résumé, and an awkward run-in with a guy in her seminar who called her "uptight"—she'd walked out of the subway station and dialed his number like it was muscle memory.
"Hey," she said, her voice small.
Eli answered after one ring. "Hey. You good?"
"No," she said. "But I don't want to be alone."
He didn't hesitate. "Come over."
His apartment was barely a step up from a dorm, tucked above a corner deli with creaky floors and a window view of someone else's laundry line. But when Clare stepped inside, it smelled like warmth—coffee, vanilla, and a trace of whatever candle Eli pretended not to light.
He handed her a hoodie.
Hers, actually. One she'd left in Toronto. She didn't say anything, just pulled it on over her damp clothes and sat cross-legged on his bed while he made them tea in mismatched mugs.
She watched him move—careful, quiet, focused. Familiar in the way old songs are. Different in ways she hadn't learned yet.
When he handed her the mug, their fingers brushed. Neither of them pulled away.
They drank in silence for a minute, the kind of silence that felt full.
Then Clare said, "Sometimes I still feel like that girl who doesn't know how to breathe unless someone else tells her how."
Eli set his mug down slowly. "You're not."
"I want to believe that."
He turned toward her, knees bent, mirroring her shape on the bed. "You wrote your way out of the dark, Clare. I read every word. You gave other people their second chances, but I think you gave one to yourself first."
She blinked, tears threatening.
Eli reached out, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone, slow, soft. His hand rested at the side of her neck, and suddenly it was like they were back in high school, and yet not at all. Because now, there was no pressure. No breaking. Just history. Just want.
Their faces were inches apart.
He leaned in—
And she stopped him.
Not with words. Just a breath. A shift.
"I can't…" she whispered.
He pulled back instantly. "Okay."
She looked away. "It's not that I don't want to. I do. It's just… I need to know I'm not falling into something because it feels safe."
Eli nodded, voice thick. "You deserve more than safe."
She met his eyes again. "So do you."
They sat in that charged silence again, both of them vibrating with what almost was.
Clare set her mug down, leaned against him, and rested her head on his shoulder.
Eli didn't move.
He just whispered, "I'll wait."
And she closed her eyes.
Because for the first time, she believed he meant it.