There's something magical about eating with someone you love. I can't explain it, but somehow, the steak tasted richer, the wine smoother, and even the silence between bites felt alive—like it was humming softly in harmony with our hearts. Maybe it was because I'd cooked it for us. Or maybe because, for the first time in a long time, I wasn't eating alone. Either way, that dinner felt different. It felt right.
Camila finally broke the silence that had wrapped around us like a warm blanket.
"Harry, this is really nice," she said, her tone gentle, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
Her words melted into the soft music drifting from the TV, and my chest swelled a little. I met her gaze, a mix of pride and affection stirring in my eyes.
"Many more surprises, my darling," I said playfully.
That one word—darling—hung in the air longer than expected. It seemed to reach across the table and settle right between us, stirring something unspoken, something warm. She smiled back, the kind of smile that holds a secret and an invitation at once.
We ate slowly, savoring not just the food but the comfort of presence. Our conversation danced between laughter and light teasing—stories from work, random jokes, silly comments about the TV show flickering in the background. Every laugh, every glance, every shared silence built a rhythm that felt like home.
At one point, I leaned back, scanning the room. "Camila, you've got such a cozy place," I said sincerely. "It's neat, calm... it feels like a space that breathes."
She looked up, a shy smile blooming on her lips. There was pride in her eyes—the kind that doesn't need words. It wasn't just a compliment about her apartment; it was about her. And she knew it.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The quiet between us wasn't awkward—it was beautiful. It was the kind of silence that makes you realize something subtle but certain has changed. I caught her looking at me, that soft glint in her eyes whispering what words couldn't: she was glad we were starting over.
And honestly, so was I.
It's funny how love finds you when you're not looking—on a random Sunday, over steak, laughter, and a little courage to try again.
By the time we were done, the plates were empty, the glasses drained. The TV hummed softly, now rolling a commercial that no one was watching. Then, out of nowhere—boom. Thunder cracked the sky open, followed by a faint flash of lightning.
"Seriously?" I muttered under my breath. Of all times, it had to rain now.
Camila looked up, then at me—and we both burst into laughter, almost as if the weather was in on our story. It wasn't awkward; it was perfect, like the universe had decided to soundtrack our evening with rain.
She rose from her seat to clear the table, and I followed, insisting on helping with the dishes. At the sink, shoulder to shoulder, our hands brushed occasionally—small sparks that neither of us acknowledged but both of us felt.
The room smelled of soap and rain, and I caught myself thinking that this—this—was what peace felt like.
It was starting to feel too perfect. Too... us.
Calm down, Harry, I thought. It's not that deep.
But who was I kidding? Maybe it was.
The rain softened to a gentle drizzle, the kind that makes you want to stay wrapped in the moment a little longer. I turned to her, drying my hands.
"Guess that's my cue to say goodbye," I said lightly, testing her reaction.
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes met mine, full of questions she didn't ask. That silence said more than words ever could.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, folding my arms, a teasing grin forming.
"Oh no," I said, shaking my head. "I'm not driving in the rain. I'll wait till it's over."
And just like that, the air shifted again—soft, unhurried, electric. Between the rain tapping on the window and the quiet laughter that lingered between us, something beautiful settled.
Maybe love doesn't always announce itself with fireworks or grand confessions.
Sometimes, it arrives quietly—over dinner, a bit of rain, and two hearts willing to stay just a little longer.
Camila tilted her head, studying me as the rain drummed gently against the window. Her curiosity was subtle but sharp, like a question she'd been holding in too long.
"You don't drive in the rain?" she finally asked, her tone soft but probing. "Why though? Is it... something you just don't like, or—"
I swallowed before she could finish. The words came slower than I intended, as if they were being pulled from somewhere deep and buried. My fingers tightened around the edge of the counter, and I let out a small, shaky breath.
"It's not that I don't like it," I began quietly, eyes fixed on the raindrops trailing down the glass. "It's that I can't."
She stayed silent, waiting—her presence patient, gentle.
"When I was fifteen," I continued, "it rained hard one night. My mum and I had just left my aunt's place after dinner. She was driving, singing along to that old Whitney Houston song she loved. I remember the smell of her perfume, that warm, floral scent that filled the car. I remember the headlights reflecting on the wet road. Everything felt... normal."
My voice faltered, but I pushed through, the memories coming in waves.
"Then, in a blink, it wasn't."
I looked down, watching my own reflection in the wineglass left on the counter. "A truck lost control from the opposite lane. I don't even remember the sound—just the light, the spinning, the cold. I woke up two days later in the hospital. My dad told me she didn't make it."
The room fell quiet, except for the whisper of rain and the faint hum of the TV. My throat tightened, but I managed a small, broken laugh. "You'd think time would dull it, right? But every time it rains, I hear her voice. I see the lights. I smell the rain on the road. It's like the world pauses, just long enough to remind me what I lost."
Camila took a cautious step closer, her eyes glistening with unspoken empathy. "Harry..." she whispered, the word more breath than voice.
"I tried, you know," I said, my voice trembling now. "Years later, I tried to drive in the rain. My palms got sweaty, my heart raced like I was fifteen again. I had to pull over. I couldn't breathe."
She reached out, her hand brushing mine before fully holding it. Her touch was light but grounding, the kind that says you're safe here.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "You shouldn't have had to carry that alone."
I finally looked at her, my eyes meeting hers. There was no pity there—just understanding. The kind that feels like warmth after a long cold night.
"I guess that's why I stay still when it rains," I murmured, almost to myself. "It's my way of remembering her—and maybe protecting myself."
Camila didn't speak. Instead, she gently pulled me into an embrace, her arms wrapping around me with quiet assurance. I hadn't realized how much I needed that—how much I'd been holding back.
For the first time in a long time, the rain didn't feel heavy. It didn't sound cruel. It was soft, rhythmic, like my mother's hum on a sleepy drive home.
Camila's voice broke the silence, low and soothing. "It's okay, Harry. You're safe. She'd want you to keep living—not hiding from the sky."
I nodded against her shoulder, eyes shut, the faint scent of her perfume blending with the scent of rain. For once, the storm outside didn't echo loss—it whispered healing.
And maybe, just maybe, love was beginning to rewrite what the rain meant to me.