Rain's POV:
After last night, my body feels sore in a way that goes deeper than muscle—like the ache lives somewhere beneath the skin.
Every movement comes late, delayed, as if I'm pushing myself through something thick and invisible.
For a while, I don't move at all. I just sit there, knees drawn close, staring out the window.
It's beautiful.
Snow drifts down in slow, soundless sheets, softening everything it touches.
Dark clouds hang low and heavy, the sky bruised with gray.
The kind of weather that usually means chaos at the ER—sirens cutting through the air, wet boots tracking slush across tile floors, hands moving too fast for anyone to keep up.
Today, I'm not there.
Today, I'm home.
And I don't want to think.
I don't want to plan or worry or brace myself for what comes next.
I just want to exist inside the quiet.
Eventually, restlessness nudges me to my feet.
I wander barefoot through the house, socks whispering over warm wood floors, curiosity guiding me deeper into Danny's space.
Maybe I'll snoop a little.
His home is beautiful—not in a showy way. Nothing sharp or polished. It's calm. Intentional. Earthy tones, worn textures, soft corners. The kind of place that feels safe without demanding attention.
I drift from room to room until I find it.
A small library tucked away like a secret.
Oh.
That stops me cold.
Tall shelves line the walls, filled edge to edge. A reading chair angled toward the fireplace.
A throw blanket folded neatly across its arm. The faint smell of old paper and cedar lingers in the air.
Curling up here with a book wouldn't be such a bad idea.
I move closer, running my fingers along the spines as I scan the shelves.
There are so many.
And then something strange settles in my chest.
Most of these authors—I know them. Not just know them. Loved them.
Dickens.
Brontë.
Tolstoy.
The ones I devoured when I was younger, when stories felt like oxygen.
Did Danny remember that?
Or did he love them too?
I don't let myself linger on the question.
I pull one down at random.
Who doesn't like Dickens?
I flip through the pages absently.
And then—
My breath catches.
Notes.
Ink crowding the margins. Slanted. Messy. Familiar in a way that makes my skin prickle.
I flip back to the first page.
My name is written there.
With that stupid little heart instead of a dot over the i.
My palms go slick.
These aren't just similar.
These are mine.
Oh my god.
These are all the books I gave him.
He kept them.
Not just kept them—he curated them. Shelved them. Preserved them.
My heart does something strange, fluttering warmth spreading outward, loosening something tight in my ribs.
I pull out another book.
Then another.
Every single one bears my handwriting.
All my thoughts.
All my questions.
Every ridiculous side comment and emotional outburst.
Saved.
It started when we were fourteen.
Ten years ago
I march down the hall toward his room, fully prepared to force him into playing my new Barbie Monopoly game with me.
Before I can knock, his voice cuts through the door in a frantic whisper-shout.
"Rain. Come in. Come in—quick."
I push inside.
Danny looks tense. Pale.
"What happened?" I ask, casual on purpose.
With Danny, it's probably some ridiculous video game emergency.
"You have to help me hide this."
He shoves a piece of paper into my hands.
An exam.
Failed.
I sigh.
"You failed English again? How do you manage that every time? You're not stupid, so why?"
"I just—" He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I can't get through books, okay? I don't know why. It's hard."
I stare at him, unconvinced.
Danny's smart. I've always known that.
"Maybe you need to read something easier," I say, digging into my bag.
I pull out a dog-eared paperback. "Here. Take this. It's mine."
He eyes it suspiciously. "How is that supposed to help?"
"Try it," I say. "It's perfect for duds like you."
He pulls my hair in retaliation.
I shove him.
We wrestle, laughing, like always.
A week later, he shows up at my house practically vibrating.
"I loved it," he says the second he sees me. "It was so good."
We then spend the entire night talking—characters, scenes, arguing over who was right and who was an idiot.
The sun nearly comes up.
After that, I start giving him my used books.
He devours them like a starving kitten.
On his fifteenth birthday, I buy him a brand-new special edition set. Perfect. Untouched.
"Rain, I don't want this," he says, frowning.
My heart dips.
"I thought you liked them."
"I do," he says quickly. "But… they're new."
"So?"
"They don't have your notes."
I blink. Then laugh. "Well, yeah. Obviously."
"No," he insists. "I only like reading when your notes are there."
Something tightens low in my stomach.
"Why?" I ask, trying—badly—to sound casual.
"It feels like you're with me," he says, words tumbling out now.
"Like I know what made you smile. Or what confused you. Or what made you cry .Or the big words you circled because you didn't get it.
It's like I'm inside your head."
He pauses. Then, quieter—
"I like living in your head."
The feeling hits me all at once, sharp and overwhelming, like swallowing my own heart.
"So take them back," he says quickly, embarrassed.
"Write in them. Then give them to me."
He tackles me into a hug before I can answer.
From then on, every book he read—I annotated.
So he'd never be alone with the pages.
Present:
The memory leaves me smiling, soft and undone.
Every note.
Every scribble.
All of it saved.
Oh, Danny.
I shake my head and move toward a newer section of the shelf.
And then I freeze.
This book shouldn't be here.
It's from the series we were reading—before everything broke.
I pull it down and flip it open.
The margins are filled.
But the handwriting—
It's not mine.
My chest tightens before my mind can catch up.
Then I understand.
It's his.
Uneven.
Careful.
Like he was trying to imitate me without fully knowing how.
He's marked lines he thought I'd love.
Left little Rs beside moments he believed would matter to me.
He read it as me.
So he could have seen what I would have seen.
So he could feel what I would have felt.