Rain & Love

AUTHOR'S POV

Darren pushed the door open with one arm, Ash curled against his chest like the absolute feral goddess she was half sass, half chaos, full drama, and yet, all heart.

He stepped inside, the dim lights of the hotel room casting a golden glow over her sleepy, grumbling figure. With a gentleness that screamed "I've dealt with this madness before and I'll do it again with pride," he knelt down beside the Whitmore Recliner the only piece of furniture in the room that looked like it belonged in a rich aunt's villa.

Carefully, he helped her sit, supporting her head and smoothing her tangled curls.
But just as he was about to rise-

Her fingers curled around his wrist.

She blinked at him, pupils wide, dazed like a five-year-old seeing a unicorn.

And then, in the most broken, breathy whisper that carried the gravity of a Shakespearean tragedy, she said:

"Ice... cream."

Darren choked back a laugh.

"God, you're impossible."

Ash simply stared at him like a wounded squirrel.
A squirrel that'd burn a city down for a scoop of Belgian dark chocolate.

"Alright, alright, stay there," he muttered, brushing her cheek. "I'll get your royal dessert."

He walked to the kitchenette, opened the fridge with the elegance of a man on a mission, and pulled out two cone-style Belgian-American Dark Chocolate masterpieces because when you love a hurricane like Ash Thompson, you come prepared.

He walked back, both cones in hand, ready to present them like ancient artifacts to a sulking queen.

But then

He froze.

Ash, in her drunken glory, was sitting on the recliner like it was a fashion week throne.
Her gown muddy from the outside adventures was now half folded, half twisted, and she was trying to "fix it" by dramatically swishing the fabric back and forth like she was waving at ghosts.

Her head tilted. Her lips pursed.
Her hands fluttered across the dress like a designer about to launch her fall collection titled "Post-Breakup Elegance: Messy but Expensive."

She mumbled to herself like a stylist under pressure,
"Too many pleats... murder the pleats... okay slay... no, uncurl the frill... she's beauty, she's grace... she'll punch you in the face..."

Darren stood in the doorway, completely still.

Ice cream in both hands.

Heart?
Gone. Collapsed. Dead. Buried.

That was it.

That was the moment.

He.
Fell. HARDER.

Like "tripped over a stupid emotion, smashed face-first into forever"-kind of hard.

Because here she was, slightly drunk, slightly dangerous, slightly looking like she might yell at the lamp for being too bright, and she was still the most beautiful person he had ever laid eyes on.

She looked up mid-frill-adjustment and saw him standing there.

"You took long," she said with a pout, like he had abandoned her in the jungle and not walked ten steps for dessert.

Darren walked forward, handed her the cone, and whispered, "You're actually going to kill me one day."

Ash gasped. "Is it because of my hotness?"