The next Thursday brought rain.
Not the heavy, dramatic kind that drenched you in minutes—but the soft, whispering kind that wrapped the town in gray mist and made windowpanes weep.
Elena sat by the tall library windows with a book in her lap—one she'd barely read a page of. Her eyes kept drifting toward the staircase, waiting for the sound of footsteps.
Adrian hadn't come in yet.
She hated how much that mattered.
Each minute that passed carved a space inside her. It wasn't longing, not exactly—more like… absence. A strange emptiness that came from not hearing that quiet voice or seeing his eyes flick up just briefly when she entered the room.
She sighed, staring out at the rain-slicked street, when she heard the door.
A rush of cool air. Wet boots. A sharp intake of breath behind her.
"You took my seat."
She turned. There he was.
Adrian stood beside the window, hair damp and clinging to his forehead, coat dripping onto the floor. His eyes—gray and stormy—watched her with something unreadable.
"I was keeping it warm," she said, trying to hide the relief in her voice.
He looked down at her, a small tug at his lips. Then, he pulled a small towel from his bag and ran it through his hair without much care, drops falling to the floor.
"You always come early," he said.
"You always come late."
"You wait for me?"
The question was soft. Barely there. But it landed between them like a raindrop in still water.
She blinked. "I think I do."
Adrian sat on the armrest of the nearby chair, just across from her. Close enough that she could see the faint stubble on his jaw. Close enough to notice the ink stain smudged across his right thumb. Close enough to imagine what it would feel like if their knees brushed.
She tucked her legs under her, keeping the tension safely untouched. But her body hummed.
"What are you reading?" he asked, leaning forward.
"Technically? 'Leaves of Grass.' But I'm only pretending."She held up the book. "I've reread the same paragraph three times."
He raised a brow. "Distracted?"
"A little."
He reached out and tapped the edge of her book, his fingers grazing hers—just barely.
"There," he said. "New paragraph."
The brush was almost nothing. Almost.But it lingered. Her fingers tingled where he'd touched them.
She looked down at her hand, then up at him. He wasn't smiling, but his gaze burned low and steady.
Later, they sat side by side in the upstairs reading nook.
The rain tapped against the windows, and the world outside had blurred into gray watercolor. The air between them was still, but no longer cold.
They didn't speak much. Instead, they exchanged pages.
She passed him a book she'd marked with soft notes in pencil. He handed her a tattered journal filled with his own short poems.
Each page was a conversation. Each scribble, a confession.
"The first time I saw you, you weren't looking at me.You were looking at a window like it could answer you.I think I fell for the silence between that stare."
She traced the lines with her finger.
"These are beautiful," she whispered. "They feel like stolen thoughts."
He looked at her, eyes unreadable. "Maybe they are."
When she stood to leave, her hand brushed his again as she reached for her coat. This time, he didn't pull away.
"Elena."
Her name in his voice felt deeper than it should have. Like an echo inside her chest.
She looked up.
"Will you come next Thursday?"
"I might come before," she said softly.
He gave her that same almost-smile—the one that looked like it surprised even him.
As she walked out into the rain, the wind catching her scarf and brushing dampness against her cheek, her fingers still burned.
Not from the cold.
But from the almost-touch that said more than words ever could.
[End of Chapter 3]