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The rain had been falling since late morning, steady and insistent, streaking the tall glass windows of his apartment with silver. The city outside blurred into hazy shadows and glowing street-lamps, the usual din muffled under the downpour.
Inside, though, it was warm. The hum of the kettle on the stove, the low murmur of an old record spinning, the soft click of Mel’s pen as she scribbled notes at the kitchen table—all of it wrapped around him like a second kind of weather.
Jayce leaned against the counter, arms crossed loosely, and tried not to smile too wide as he watched her. She looked utterly out of place in the most wonderful way: Mel Medarda, the poised and terrifying councilor, barefoot in his kitchen wearing his oversized sweater. It was gray, wool, and comically large on her, the sleeves swallowing her hands so badly she had to keep pushing the cuffs up to write properly.
It should have been mundane. It wasn’t.
He’d given it to her half-jokingly, because she’d wrinkled her nose when she first came in from the rain, muttering about the weather in that dry, elegant tone that always made him grin. But she’d slipped it over her dress without protest, and now the sight of her like that—hair pulled out of its usual glamorous twists and coiled, legs folded up on the chair, the soft wool falling short over her toned thighs—was doing things to his heart he couldn’t even begin to name.
“Stop staring,” she said without looking up, her voice lilting, amused.
“I’m not,” he protested instantly, ears going hot.
Her pen stilled. Slowly, she raised her gaze to him, one brow arched with surgical precision. “Jayce.”
He laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Her mouth curved into a small smile. “A little?” She tapped her pen against the notepad. “You’re burning holes into me from across the room. Should I be concerned?”
“No,” he said quickly, then softer, sheepishly: “Not unless you mind me thinking you look… good.”
She tilted her head. “In your shapeless sweater?”
“Yes,” he said, perhaps too firmly. “Especially in my shapeless sweater.”
She laughed then, a warm sound that seemed to soften the rain’s drumming outside. Her shoulders relaxed, and she ducked her head slightly as if she didn’t want him to see her smile, but he caught it anyway. Jayce’s chest felt like it might burst. ‘She’s here. She’s laughing. She’s mine.’
The kettle whistled, mercifully saving him from blurting something stupid. He busied himself making tea, pouring the hot water into her favorite mug (the one with the delicate painted lilies, not his clunky ceramic ones). When he set it down beside her notes, she looked up again, eyes soft with something that made his throat tighten.
“You take care of me too much,” she murmured.
Jayce slid into the chair opposite her, shrugging. “Is there such a thing?”
“Ask anyone else and they’ll say yes. But you?” She took a careful sip, watching him over the rim. “You’re incorrigible.”
He grinned despite the flush creeping up his neck. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They worked in companionable quiet after that—well, she worked. Jayce’s focus kept drifting. The rain rattled harder against the windows, thunder rolling faintly in the distance, and he found himself listening more to the sound of her pen scratching and the occasional sip of tea than to anything on the page in front of him.
At one point, she stretched, the sweater slipping off one shoulder, revealing smooth dark skin decorated with gold and the strap of her dress beneath. Jayce nearly dropped his pen. He forced his eyes back to his notes, but his thoughts betrayed him. ‘She’s here. She’s comfortable enough to do this. She’s comfortable with me.’
When Mel noticed him staring again, she didn’t scold him this time. Instead, she leaned her cheek into her palm, studying him with a softened gaze. “You’re thinking too loudly again.”
Jayce blinked. “Too loudly?”
“Yes. I can practically see the gears turning in your head.” Her lips quirked. “Would you like to share?”
He opened his mouth, then shut it, flustered. How could he possibly say “I’m thinking about how you look in my sweater, and how badly I want to kiss you until the rain stops, and how I still can’t believe you’re mine”?
Instead, he cleared his throat. “I was just… thinking about how nice this is.”
Mel’s brows lifted delicately. “This?”
“Yeah. You. Me. Rain outside. Tea. Just… us.” His cheeks burned, but he pushed through it, his voice softening. “It feels… right.”
Something flickered in her expression—something vulnerable, fleeting, but so real that it made his chest ache. She reached across the table then, tugging at the long sleeve of the sweater until her fingers peeked out, and laid her hand over his.
“It does,” she said simply.
For a long moment, the only sound was the rain and their breathing. Jayce squeezed her hand gently, his thumb brushing the soft fabric at her wrist. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she pressed her fingers more firmly against his.
The thunder rolled again, and the lights flickered once. Jayce chuckled, shaking his head. “Guess we’re stuck here for the night.”
Mel gave him a look that was equal parts amused and fond. “How tragic,” she deadpanned.
Jayce grinned. “Devastating. Guess I’ll have to find some way to make it bearable.”
She smirked, tugging the sweater tighter around herself. “You already have.”
Jayce felt that like a physical blow—warm, dizzying, the kind of thing he’d replay later when he was alone. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to say a dozen things he wasn’t sure he had the right words for yet. But instead, he just held her hand across the table, listened to the rain, and thought: ‘If this is what forever feels like, I’ll take it.’