Rain's POV:
I wake up while the sun is barely out.
A warm ache pulses between my legs… and the bed beside me is empty.
And before I can stop it, something inside me cracks open.
My vision blurs. My throat tightens.
And suddenly I'm dragged six years back like I never left that moment at all.
He left.
He's gone.
He did it again.
My chest folds inward, like someone reached in and pressed a thumb right into the bruise that never healed.
No, stupid — you let him do it again.
You never learned how to shut the door on him.
You don't know how to stop choosing the one person who proved he could break you without even trying.
My legs feel weak as I stand and catch my reflection in the mirror.
For a heartbeat, I don't even recognise myself.
My eyes look wild, hollow.
Haunted.
The shame hits fast and hard, like being hit by a wave I didn't brace for.
"He left… he's gone… he's gone…"
The words tumble out in fragments, collapsing in my mouth before a sob claws its way up my chest.
It rips out of me — raw, choking and plain ugly.
I grip the pillow with trembling fingers.
I can't stop shaking.
He pulled me into his storm again.
Made me believe, for one impossible second, that I mattered.
That maybe this time would be different.
That maybe I wasn't a fool for still wanting him.
And then — nothing.
An empty room.
A cold pillow.
The exact nightmare I rebuilt myself from.
It's fine.
It has to be fine.
We've survived this before.
We don't break over him anymore.
We don't.
I tell myself the words like I'm reading instructions off a card, but my body refuses to listen.
The tears keep falling, hot and endless, slipping down my chin and dripping onto the floor.
Every breath feels like dragging air through splinters.
My Chest tightens.
My vision narrows.
I can feel the old panic rushing in, familiar as an old scar pressed too hard.
Just when the world starts to tilt, the door swings open.
"Jesus—did something happen?"
He rushes in, breath uneven, worry carved into every line of his face.
His eyes sweep the window, the corners, the shadows — hunting for a threat.
If only he knew the only danger in this room is him.
I wipe at my face, but the tears don't stop. Everything looks soft around the edges, unfocused, like the world tilted without warning.
He sits beside me, close — too close — and it makes everything worse.
The bed dips under his weight the same way it used to.
Like nothing changed. Like no years passed.
My heart panics at the familiarity.
"Where were you?" My voice cracks so badly it hardly sounds like mine.
"I called, I texted… where were you? Why didn't you come?"
My hand lifts before I can think, dragging across his chest — desperate, trembling, searching for something solid to hold onto.
His warmth hits me like a memory I don't want, pulling me somewhere I swore I'd never go back to.
It doesn't ground me.
It knocks the air out of me.
He flinches — from the hurt he sees on my face.
"I'm here now."
His voice comes soft, coaxing, almost pleading.
"Rain, listen to me. That's over. That was six years ago."
His words provoke a strange dizziness — like the floor drops an inch beneath me.
"Look at me," he urges, leaning forward.
I try, but my vision slips past him, somewhere behind him, somewhere older.
"Rain," he raises his voice , he looks desperate.
"Look at me."
My breath stutters.
I don't know what I'm looking for — him now, or him then.
"You're… he-here?" The question trembles out of me, small and unsure.
"I'm here," he says firmly.
"Look around you."
So I do.
For a second it feels the same.
Too much the same.
No yellow T-shirt.
No old room.
No past.
But my chest still burns like I'm back there anyway.
Then last night slams into me — all of it — sharp and bright and too close.
And layered beneath it, the pain from six years ago stirs, raw, awake, unburied.
I tear my gaze away from him. I can't look.
If I meet his eyes right now, he'll see it —
the confusion, the hurt, the shame.
He watches me with that worried expression .
Why now?
Why this sudden concern, like he suddenly remembers how to care?
Then the thought hits me so hard it knocks the breath from my lungs—
Uncle is dead.
Gone.
My throat tightens as I look at him, the last of my tears drying stiff on my cheeks.
"What… what happened to your dad?" I ask, voice low, steadying itself on whatever strength I have left.
His jaw tightens. "I told you. He died."
I swing my legs off the bed.
"I don't have time for these games."
It's 6:45 a.m.
The wall clock blinks at me like it's mocking the fact that my life is unravelling before sunrise.
"Where's my phone?"
He doesn't speak — just hands it over with this blank, unreadable expression.
Calls from Matt.
Natalia.
Mom.
Does Mom know Uncle is dead?
Then I see the email — 4 a.m., from the hospital admin.
What kind of a psychopath sends an email at—I open it.
And my stomach drops straight through the floor.
I'm fired.
Just like that.
No meeting. No warning. No explanation. Nothing.
I call the HR department.
No one picks up.
"I'm fired?" The words scrape out of me.
I worked my ass off for that job.
Matt and I planned our entire year around it.
"What does it say?" Dane asks — casually. Too casually.
"It says I'm fired!" I snap.
"Well… it's for the best. We're leaving tomorrow morning anyway," he says, like he's announcing a goddamn vacation.
My irritation spikes instantly, sharp and hot.
"What the fuck did you just say?"
"Rain, we have to leave. There's no other way."
"Listen to me, Dane,
I'm not going anywhere with you. There is nothing — nothing — you can do to make me come."
His expression hardens.
"You don't have an option."
His voice drops, low and dangerous.
"I'll drag you if I have to."
Drag me?
Drag me?
Heat surges through me so fast it's blinding.
A hot, shaking, white-knuckled rage that makes my hands curl into fists.
I stare at him, pulse pounding in my ears.
"Try it," I say, voice trembling with anger.
"I fucking dare you"
He won't let me leave, and if I need to then I have to get out of here now.
Fine.
I'll humor him.
"Where are we going?" I ask blankly.
"I can't tell you."His gaze flicks away.
Of course.
Of course he won't give me a straight answer.
"Why can't I stay here? Or another safe house?"
"It's not safe here. And you'll be with me," he says, tone leaving no room for argument.
Who the hell does he think he is?
Dragging me into his chaos, deciding my life for me, acting like I belong wherever he points.
The gall of him.
The sheer, unbelievable audacity.
Come on Rain , you got this , you have to get along if you want to leave.
With my new found determination I go on—
"I should still go home and pack," I say, casual, almost agreeable, as if I'm finally coming around.
He doesn't notice the shift.
Thank the lord above.
"I'll send someone. Or buy you new clothes."
He actually thinks I'm going with him.
How Adorable.
"No," I say, still calm.
"I've been agreeing with you. I need to go home and pack. I'll meet you in the evening. You have to let me go .
He hesitates.
His brows crease.
I can practically feel him weighing it.
My heart thuds once.
Twice.
Please.
Just one opening.
One mistake.
"Fine."He nods.
"I'll send someone with you. To help you, of course."
How chivalrous.
"Okay"
I'll lose his minion.
I'll get out of here.
I slide into the car he arranged, the door shutting with a soft thud that feels too final. For a second, I let myself look at him—just once more.
He's standing a few steps back, jaw tight, eyes fixed on me like he's trying to stop it.
I feel for you.
I still do.
But you don't get to wreck my life just because you walked back into it six years too late.
I lean out and press a soft kiss to his cheek.
The surprise in his eyes—raw, unguarded—almost hurts.
For a second—
we hold each other's gaze through the open window, suspended between what we were and what we can't be anymore.
One final time.
Then the car moves, and he's left standing there, shrinking in the rearview as I force myself to stare straight ahead.
I don't look back.
I can't.
If I do, something in me will break.
I exhale, reach for my phone, and dial Matt.
"Don't ask questions. Just book me the earliest flight to Boston."