Rain's POV:
"I want some more of these Oreos," I tell Danny, shaking the box near my ear like it might magically refill itself.
He squints at me, lips twitching.
"Look at your face, Jesus Christ."
"What?"
"You don't even eat them," he says, horrified and amused all at once.
"You just… commit."
"Do you just shove your whole head in there to speed things up?"
I snort and smack his chest lightly.
"Shut up. You're dramatic."
He laughs, the sound easy, unguarded.
"I'm serious. There's chocolate on your cheek."
I wipe my face immediately. "Liar."
"Am I?" he says, grinning wider now.
I glare at him, but I'm smiling too.
"So," he says after a beat, leaning back like he's got nowhere else he'd rather be.
"what do you want to do?"
The silence that settles after isn't awkward.
It's just… heavy.
I let my gaze drift around the living room again.
The wooden floors gleam softly under warm lights.
The fireplace sits quiet but ready, stone dark and steady, like it's waiting for winter nights that haven't arrived yet.
Snow presses gently against the tall windows, the mountains beyond them blurred and unreal.
It's beautiful.
Too beautiful.
Exactly the way I once described it to him, years ago.
Every detail is there. Every corner.
Why did he do this?
Did I actually matter enough for him to remember?
Enough to build this?
I don't ask. I don't move. I just look at him.
He feels it—I know he does. The weight of my questions, unspoken but loud.
His jaw tightens slightly, shoulders shifting like he wants to say something and doesn't know how.
It unsettles him.
I just keep looking at him.
"Let's watch Home Alone?" he suggests, eyes flicking to mine like he's bracing for a verdict.
"Depends," I say, pretending to think. "Which one?"
He scoffs. "Obviously not part two. Part two is for losers."
"Part two is for losers," I say at the exact same time.
We both freeze.
I snort before I can stop myself, laughter spilling out of me—real, unguarded.
He laughs too, shaking his head like he can't believe we still do this.
"Danny," I say softly.
He looks different like this.
Calmer. Almost… peaceful.
All I want right now is this—this quiet.
This pause.
"Come here," he murmurs, his voice low and gentle.
He pulls me into his chest before I can think too hard about it.
The moment my head settles there, something inside me finally goes still.
No memories clawing for attention.
No fear creeping in at the edges.
Just the steady rise and fall of him beneath my cheek.
We stay like that for a long time—longer than necessary—arms wrapped around each other as if letting go might invite our demons back.
I feel him press his face into my hair, breathing me in slowly.
"Almonds and coconut," he murmurs, almost to himself.
Approval softening the words.
I don't ask if he remembers.
I don't ask if it's coincidence.
I'm afraid of the answer either way.
"I remember everything," he says quietly, lifting his head just enough to look at me.
Our eyes meet.
There's too much there—grief, relief, guilt, longing—so much emotion pooled behind his eyes that it makes my throat ache.
Like if I look too closely, it might spill out and drown us both.
So I don't say anything.
I just stay.
And for the first time in a long while, that feels like enough.
"Do you want to go for a swim?" he asks suddenly, like the idea just struck him.
I blink. "Swim?"
"It's snowing, Danny."
He shrugs, completely unfazed.
"We have a heated indoor pool. Come."
And just like that, something inside me lifts.
I start to pull my arms away from his neck, but before I can even shift properly, he scoops me up—easy and effortless.
He doesn't look at me.
Doesn't need to.
I breathe into his chest, the familiar warmth grounding me, and I feel him stiffen just slightly—as if the contact hits him deeper than he expected.
The pool area opens up around us, all glass and it's breathtaking.
Snow drifts past the tall windows outside, slow and endless, while inside the air is warm, the water faintly steaming.
The contrast feels unreal—like two worlds existing at once.
He sets me down gently.
I just stand there, barefoot on warm stone, heart full and confused and alive—unsure what to do with myself.
"Rain," he says, nudging my side gently, "are you planning on swimming… or just standing there ?"
I laugh despite myself and retreat a few steps, the sound echoing softly against the tiled walls.
He doesn't follow right away.
Instead, he reaches for the hem of his T-shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion—never once breaking eye contact. Then his shorts are gone too, dropped carelessly to the floor.
He stands there in just his boxers, utterly unselfconscious.
Stunning feels like an understatement.
It's the way he holds himself. The quiet confidence.
The strength that doesn't need to announce itself.
And then I see them.
The scars.
Thin lines. Jagged marks. Some faded, some not.
They map his body in a way that makes my stomach tighten with unease.
I turn away quickly and start to undress, suddenly aware of my own skin.
Footsteps. Close.
He's behind me before I realize it.
Gentle hands turn me back to face him.
"Don't," he says quietly.
I look up.
"Don't ever hide," he continues, his voice low, steady.
"There's nothing about you that needs hiding."
His hands frame my face as he helps me out of pants till I'm left standing there in just my bra and panties, the air suddenly cool against my skin, every nerve awake.
He doesn't rush me.
Instead, he lifts me again, easy and sure, like my weight has always belonged in his arms.
One arm tucked beneath my knees, the other firm around my back, grounding me.
He presses a soft kiss on the side of the head.
Why are we behaving like this ?
Like this is who we've always been.
What are we doing?
How did we get here?
We look… happy.
I don't ask the questions forming at the back of my throat.
I don't want answers that might shatter this fragile quiet we've stumbled into.
The water closes around me when he sets me down—warm, soothing, almost shocking in how good it feels.
Almost as comforting as the solid warmth of him.
The moment my feet find the pool floor, I push away, swimming toward the far end—needing space, needing to breathe, needing a second to understand what we are.
The glass walls stretch high around us, framing the world outside.
Snow drifts down in slow, silent spirals, blanketing the mountains beyond.
Everything out there looks untouched.
I float there, watching it fall, letting the water hold me.
Then I feel it—movement behind me.
Unavoidable.
Unignorable.
And somehow… exactly where I want him to be.
"It's beautiful," I say, watching the snow drift past the glass.
"It is," he answers—but his eyes never leave my face.
He steps closer, close enough that his body blocks the view entirely, the world outside replaced by the solid warmth of him.
"You're blocking the view," I murmur, pressing a finger lightly into his chest.
"From where I'm standing," he says quietly, almost carefully, "This is the better view."
The words land softly—and still manage to unsettle me.
Because it feels good.
Too good.
Like being seen in a way that makes my chest ache instead of swell.
I drop my hand.
This shouldn't feel like this.
He left.
He chose to go.
He didn't look back when it mattered.
And now he's standing here, looking at me like nothing ever broke between us—like the past didn't split us open and leave pieces behind.
The warmth between us is real.
So is the confusion.
Before he can explain it away again, I reach for something else.
Something that won't look back at me.
"How did you get this scar?" I ask quietly.
My fingers trace the faint line through the hair on his chest, playing with it.
I bend and press my lips to it.
"Baby," he says, and the word cracks open in his throat.
It hurts to hear it like that.
"I—shit, I'm sorry," I murmur, pulling back instinctively, guilt rushing in.
Like I crossed a line I didn't see.
But he doesn't let me go.
His fingers close around my wrist—the one still marked, still bruised—and he brings it closer to his mouth.
His lips brush over the darkened skin, slow and careful, like he's trying to undo something that's already happened.
I flinch. Pull away.
"I need a story before I let you kiss," I say softly, trying to sound light maybe playful.
"What story?" he asks, his thumb lifting, trying to tilt my chin up.
I don't let him.
Instead, I lean in again and kiss the scar just below his shoulder, my lips lingering there this time.
"Scar," I whisper.
"Story."
He goes still.
I feel it—the hesitation, the wall rising behind his ribs. He doesn't want to give this to me. Whatever it is, it costs him something.
The moment stretches.
Then I step back, disappointment sinking in quietly, settling somewhere deep.
Before I can move farther, his hand tangles in my hair—not rough, just firm enough to stop me from leaving.
"Dagger," he says finally.
"A blade."
The words are flat, stripped bare.
But his face betrays him. Pain flashes across it—sharp and fast, like muscle memory.
I want to cry for both of us.
"Now," he murmurs, voice low, unsteady, as he presses a kiss to my wrist again.
"My turn."
I nod, throat tight.
My fingers find another scar, closer to his heart. Smaller. Meaner.
I kiss it.
A single drop lands warm against my cheek.
He's crying.
"I'm sorry," I whisper immediately, panic blooming. "I shouldn't have—"
"Plea—please," he breathes, barely holding together.
"Don't stop."
My own tears come then, quiet and unstoppable.
I kiss the scar again, slower this time.
"Scar," I whisper through the ache.
"Story."
"Bullet," he says.
Just that.
Then he pulls me into his chest and holds me there, arms tight, head bowed, saying nothing more—like if he opens his mouth again, everything he's been holding back will spill out at once.
And I stay.
Eventually, he lifts me out of the water and sets me gently on the edge of the pool.
For a moment, I think he's going to step back.
Instead, he leans forward.
His forehead presses into my chest, his arms circling my waist, and then—without warning—he breaks.
His shoulders shake once, then again, and I feel the wet heat of his breath through the thin fabric against my skin.
I wrap my arms around him instinctively, fingers threading into his hair, holding him.
He's heavy against me.
Everything he's been carrying alone for too long.
"I think we'll get sick," I say softly.
He nods against me, a small, broken movement.
He pulls himself together just enough to stand, then helps me up, wrapping his arms around me immediately, shielding me from the cold air.
We walk back through the house.
At my door, I pause.
I don't want to turn around. I don't want to look at him and see that same wall of control sliding back in.
"Good night, Danny," I say quietly.
I'm already halfway gone when he speaks.
"Rain—"
Something in his voice makes me stop.
I turn just enough to look at him.
And the question slips out before I can stop it—before I can protect either of us from it.
"Who were those men Danny?
Who's Hawk?
And Stoc—Stocciani?"
The air changes instantly.
I see it happen in real time.
The softness drains from his face.
His jaw tightens.
His eyes harden—not with anger, but with something far worse.
A door slams shut behind them.
Not toward me.
Against me.
I don't ask again.
Because I already know.
I nod once, more to myself than to him, and turn away.
As I close the door behind me, the quiet feels different now.