His words hung there between us as we crossed Pierrepont, until our silence was split by another rumble of thunder. The skies opened upon us and covered us whole.

I shrieked with laughter, and Hayes lifted his arms, bags in hand. Embracing it. It was moments like this that I wish actually went viral, when joy is so pure and unadulterated that it just comes out of us without thinking.

There was no point in racing home, and so we marveled in it: the utter drenching of the world around us, the crackling of the sky, the way everyone else seemed to race by in an attempt to get cover. But he was right. There was no point in trying to avoid the inevitable. You could seek shelter, but you could never really avoid the downpour. Eventually, you have to surrender to the rain.

Back in front of my apartment, I grabbed my keys out of my canvas purse—sopping like a used rag—and unlocked the door, kicking off my shoes. “Holy shit!” I said, dumping the bags on the floor.

“I mean, at least I don’t need to shower today,” he said as he gingerly set down the three bags he was holding and shut the door behind him.

“No, that was like a week’s worth of bathing,” I said, smiling.

He stared back at me, also smiling, his eyes examining my face. “You’re soaked,” he said, his voice gravelly and low. I nodded, grabbed a dry dish towel from the counter, and stepped toward him. It felt like the space between us was going to explode: another downpour, endless thunder, the fiery crackling of light.

I reached for his face with my hands, grabbing his chin in one and wiping his wet brow with the other. He leaned forward, grasping my waist, his hands firm over my hip bones. I sighed, and all the sensation in my body rushed to where his hands held me, so secure, like if I went limp he could still prop me up. It was everything I’d grown to like about Hayes in one simple gesture—his constant desire to fix things, help, hold things together. No matter what.

There were a million words I could say in this moment. I could make a funny quip about the weather, or thank him for carrying all those groceries, or comment on his clothes—but before I could open my mouth, he was there, his lips on mine. Hayes Montgomery was kissing me, hard.