Rain pattered against the window as Ren stared at the ceiling, arms behind his head, eyes open.
He couldn't sleep.
Again.
Too many voices. Too many looks. Too many things he was pretending not to know.
And then—like a match strike in the dark—something flickered.
A memory.
They were twelve.
It was storming. Loud thunder, wet shoes, the whole summer movie scene.
Riley stood at the edge of his porch, soaked to the bone, holding a letter.
He didn't take it.
She didn't leave.
She just stared at him through the rain, lower lip trembling.
"You said you'd come to the party," she whispered.
Ren remembered now. His excuse. His silence. The look on her face when she realized he wasn't coming.
He hadn't thought about it in years.
Or maybe he had — and just chose not to.
He sat up in bed, heart pounding.
That letter. That moment. Her eyes.
Why now?
Why was he remembering Riley so clearly?
He pulled on a hoodie and padded quietly into the kitchen.
And found her there.
Midnight. Mug of tea. Hoodie too big for her shoulders.
She looked up and smiled sleepily.
"Couldn't sleep?"
He shook his head. "No."
She slid the mug toward him.
"Still can't handle caffeine?"
That stopped him.
"…How did you know that?"
Her eyes held.
"You used to say it made your hands shake."
Silence.
She didn't press. Didn't smirk.
Just sipped her tea and looked out the window like the moment never happened.
But Ren felt it.
Like a thread had been tugged loose in his chest.
And Riley? She didn't need to push.
She just needed to be there.