Rain fell on Casablanca, washing the ochre dust and the fog of tension that surrounded Élisa from the streets. The confrontation in the hallway, Adrien's gaze on her lips, then his abrupt withdrawal, had left her in turmoil. She hadn't seen him all day. Every drop on her windowpane echoed like her own suppressed tears, like the frustration and desire that suffocated her. That evening, she decided to walk home alone, umbrella in hand, seeking some semblance of peace in the patter of the rain.
As she approached her building, a dark silhouette emerged under the pale glow of a streetlamp. Adrien. Her heart skipped a painful beat. He stood there, motionless, hair plastered to his forehead, his drenched shirt clinging to the contours of his torso. He didn't seem to care about the chilling rain lashing him. Without a word, he approached, the only sound being their footsteps on the wet pavement and the constant murmur of the rain.
He stared at her, his dark, unfathomable eyes piercing her. Élisa met his gaze, refusing to succumb to the fear or attraction that gripped her. She didn't move, soaked, the cold biting her skin. The silence between them was more powerful than the storm. But when he placed his hand on her chilled cheek, the contact was like an electric shock. She didn't recoil. Instead, she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the paradoxical warmth of his cold skin against hers.
He slowly leaned in, the space between their bodies shrinking to nothing. Adrien's breath brushed her lips, a barely perceptible touch that made every fiber of her being vibrate. Her heart hammered in her chest, waiting for the kiss, craving it, the conclusion to this unbearable tension. But instead, a raw, almost painful murmur escaped his lips: "It's not time yet." And then, he vanished into the rainy night, fading like a shadow, leaving her alone, trembling, her body burning under the cold rain, with the echo of his words and the promise of a deferred desire.