Rains and You

The rain began like a whispered secret, unnoticed at first—light as breath against windows, soft as the hush before a confession. The city shifted around it, umbrellas unfurled like blooming flowers, footsteps quickened, and traffic lights blinked through the mist like slow, blinking eyes.

Jinsol hadn’t meant to be caught in it.

She stood beneath the narrow awning of an old bookstore that smelled of cedar and ghosts, her hair clinging to her forehead, her canvas bag soaked through. She hadn’t checked the weather. She never did. Rain was something that just happened to her, like memory or emotion—sudden, uninvited, strangely beautiful.

She tugged her sleeves down over her hands, exhaling sharply, fogging the cold glass behind her. Her sneakers squelched as she shifted her weight. The street was slick with silver. People passed with umbrellas, laughter trailing behind them like ribbon. But she stood still.

And then—

The girl arrived with the rain. As if summoned by the rhythm of it, as if some unseen string had been tugged taut between their spines.

She appeared without flourish, quietly stepping under the same awning, shaking droplets from her umbrella with a grace that felt too casual to be deliberate. She was dressed in black and charcoal-grey, her hair swept back in a loose tie, eyes dark like overcast skies. Jinsol noticed her jawline first—sharp, like it had been carved by wind.

They were strangers.

Yoona glanced at her once, then again, with the barest flicker of a smile. “No umbrella?”

Jinsol blinked. “I guess I like living dangerously.”

Yoona laughed, low and soft like thunder rolling far away. “You and me both,” she said, holding up her own umbrella—a comically small one, fraying slightly at the edges. “Want to live less dangerously, just for a block or two?”

Jinsol hesitated. The rain slid down her collar like a secret. She didn’t know this girl. But something about her felt… familiar. Like déjà vu soaked in perfume and moonlight. Or like the first page of a book you already love, though you’ve never read it before.

“Sure,” she said finally. “If you don’t mind.”

They stepped out together, a little too close beneath the tiny umbrella. Their shoulders bumped once, then again—neither moved away. The world narrowed to the soft rhythm of rain against nylon, and the hush of tires against wet pavement. It was oddly intimate, walking in silence like that.

“Do you always rescue strangers from weather-based misfortune?” Jinsol asked.

Yoona tilted her head, considering. “Only the ones who look like they forgot how to run.”

Jinsol smiled at the edge of that—crooked, involuntary. “Maybe I was waiting.”

Yoona looked over, eyes curious and unreadable. “For rain?”

Jinsol shook her head. “For you, maybe.”

A beat passed. The streetlight changed. They stepped off the curb together.

They walked just three blocks. They parted with a smile and a wave and no exchange of names. But the next time it rained, Jinsol would find herself glancing down that street again, wondering if storms had favorite people too.

And somewhere, Yoona would already be carrying that same, worn umbrella. Just in case.

Yoona didn’t usually remember strangers.

People came and went through her days like passing clouds—blurred at the edges, indistinct, forgettable. She liked it that way. Life was easier when no one lingered too long, when all the faces stayed soft and vague. It kept the world quiet. Contained. Manageable.

But the girl in the rain wouldn’t leave her mind.

She hadn’t even caught her name.

They hadn’t exchanged anything, not even the flimsy formalities that usually tether strangers to each other—just a few words, a shared umbrella, a smile that felt like it cracked something open in the middle of Yoona’s chest. And yet… she remembered everything.

The short, uneven cut of her blonde hair, damp and curling at the tips.
The way she’d stood under the awning like she was waiting for something—or someone.
Her height, the line of her shoulders, that easy posture like she didn’t care if she got wet, like she belonged to the rain.
And her smile.

God, her smile. Crooked, lopsided, just a little shy—like it had stumbled out by accident and didn’t know where to go. It had hit Yoona like an unexpected chord in a song. Something unfinished. Something strange and lovely and just a little off-key.

And now it echoed in her. Quietly. Relentlessly.

It was absurd, really. Yoona didn’t even know if she’d recognize her without the storm. Maybe it was the rain that made her beautiful. Maybe the whole thing had been some kind of cinematic delusion—fogged breath and glistening pavement and two strangers colliding like characters in a short film.

But no matter how she tried to fold the memory up, it wouldn’t go flat. It kept swelling in her chest. It had weight. Texture. A pulse.

For days afterward, Yoona found herself wandering past the same corner, eyes drifting toward that bookstore like she had business there. Like she read. (She didn’t. Not often, anyway.) The sign above the door was faded, the windows streaked with dried rain, the awning still slightly crooked.

No one stood there.

She’d glance around, hoping not to seem like she was waiting. She wasn’t. Not really. She just… wondered.

What was it about that girl?

It wasn’t just attraction. It was curiosity, sharp and electric. It was the feeling of something important brushing past her and vanishing before she could understand it. Like missing the beginning of a song but knowing the chorus might break your heart. Like almost catching a thread that could unravel everything if you pulled hard enough.

She wanted to know what kind of music that girl listened to when it stormed.
If she sang in the shower.
If she walked home slowly on purpose.
If she always smiled like that, or only when someone held a too-small umbrella over her head.

Yoona didn’t chase people. She didn’t fall. But something had shifted.

She caught herself looking up the weather forecast more often, scanning for rain. She carried the same umbrella in her bag every day now, even on mornings when the sky stretched clear and blue. It was silly. Ridiculous.

But something in her whispered, Maybe she’ll be there again.

And if she was—

This time, Yoona would ask her name.

—

It had just been groceries.

Nothing romantic about it—just a quiet evening with her canvas bag swinging at her side, earbuds in, thoughts drifting somewhere between the bland grocery list in her pocket and the long, aimless weekend ahead. The sky had already begun its slow transformation—light turning to pewter, clouds piling heavy and dark like slow thunder. But she hadn’t noticed, not really. The air was thick, yes, but she was used to storms sneaking up on her like emotions she didn’t want to name.

She was halfway home when the first drop hit.

It was cold and certain, and it landed right at the nape of her neck, sending a shiver through her spine like someone whispering behind her. Then came another, then another, until the clouds cracked open with a kind of resigned finality, the way someone might sigh after holding their breath too long.

Of course, she had no umbrella.
She never remembered.
Or maybe she just never tried to remember.

Her steps quickened, the bag thumping against her leg with every stride, milk sloshing in its carton, the rain threading through her hair, soaking the sleeves of her thin sweater. The storm was swift and heavy—rain falling in sheets, drumming against rooftops, pooling in sidewalk cracks. Her shoes were soaked within seconds.

She could’ve kept running.

But without really thinking, she turned down a side street—the one with the faded bookstore and the crooked awning.

That place.

It hadn’t meant to be special. It had just been where she ended up that day. But now it tugged at her like a thread she couldn’t untangle.

She ducked beneath the shelter, pressed her back to the familiar cold glass, and exhaled. The air was thick with petrichor and memory. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. She wiped at her forehead with the edge of her sleeve and let herself breathe again.

And just like that, she was back in that strange, quiet moment from last time.

The one where the rain had brought someone to her.

It wasn’t like her to remember strangers.
But that girl—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, warm-voiced—had left an echo.
Something about her had hung in the air even after she left, like a scent or a song.

She didn’t know her name.
Didn’t know where she was going, or if she even lived nearby.

But she remembered how she’d stood just a little too close under the umbrella, how her laugh had felt low and real, like thunder in the distance. She remembered the careful way she’d looked at Jinsol, like maybe she didn’t usually look at people carefully but had decided to make an exception.

It had been weeks.
Too long for it to mean anything.
Too long for the universe to bother with symmetry.

And yet—here she was.
Same rain. Same awning. Same quiet tug in her chest.
Waiting.

She told herself she was waiting for the storm to pass.

But maybe—maybe—she was also waiting for her.

And even if she didn’t show, even if Jinsol stood there alone until the rain slowed and the world turned grey again, she didn’t mind.
Because now the rain carried a whisper of something more.

Something like possibility.

The rain didn’t let up.

It poured in thick, unrelenting sheets—sounding like a thousand small hands drumming against the city’s tin and stone. The kind of rain that made traffic slow and people shelter in doorways, grumbling at the sky. Jinsol stayed where she was beneath the crooked bookstore awning, watching the puddles swell and ripple, her arms curled around her paper grocery bag like it might offer warmth.

She’d stopped pretending not to wait.

Maybe she wasn’t expecting anything to happen. But she hoped, and that was enough to keep her still.

Then, through the curtain of sound and blur of falling water, she heard it—
Footsteps.

Fast. Unapologetic. Slapping the sidewalk like a heartbeat out of rhythm. Someone was running, breathless, their shoes splashing through puddles with no regard for staying dry.

Before she could turn, a presence came to her side—close, chaotic, breath puffing hard into the air.

A hand flew up to cover their head, as if that might shield them from the downpour. The girl—taller than average, dressed in dark jeans and a jacket that had long since lost the battle with the weather—ducked beneath the awning with a sharp, dramatic breath, rainwater dripping from her sleeves and hair and chin.

“God,” she muttered to herself, brushing water off her shoulders with both hands. “Why do I never check the forecast? I swear, this city has a personal grudge against me.”

She shook her head, fingers combing through her soaked hair in frustration, completely unaware that she wasn’t alone under the awning. Her voice was slightly hoarse from the wind, full of low, irritated rhythm. “Of all days to forget my umbrella. Of course it rains. Classic.”

Jinsol blinked, the beginnings of a stunned smile curling at her lips.

It was her.
The girl from the rain.
The one with the too-small umbrella and the warm laugh and the eyes like storms.

Only this time, she had no umbrella.
Only this time, she hadn’t meant to find her.
Only this time, she looked just as surprised when she finally turned her head—and saw Jinsol standing there.

Their eyes met.

Yoona froze, mid-motion, hand still tangled in her hair. For one suspended second, everything outside the awning—the rush of rain, the passing cars, the honking and chatter and blur of the world—seemed to pause.

Her expression shifted—confusion first, then slow, widening recognition.
Like a spark catching on a match.

“You,” she breathed, half-laughing, half-disbelieving. “You’re here.”

Jinsol smiled, soft and slow. “Seems like we have a habit.”

Yoona looked around like the sky might explain itself. “I swear I wasn’t stalking you. I was just—there was this stupid bakery I wanted to try, and then the clouds rolled in, and…” She trailed off, pushing wet strands out of her face. “Okay, honestly, I didn’t even know this street had a name until now.”

Jinsol chuckled, shifting her grocery bag to one hip. “No umbrella this time?”

Yoona sighed, dramatic. “I retired it. It betrayed me. It was way too small anyway.”

They both laughed.

It felt oddly natural, standing there soaked and breathless, as if the universe had nudged them gently back into each other’s orbit. And though they still didn’t know the shape of this thing between them—whether it was coincidence or something slower and stranger blooming in the rain—there was no denying it now:

They had found each other.
Again.

And for the first time, neither of them seemed in a rush to leave.

If the rain had been gentle before—an ambient hush, a soft rhythm—the sky now decided to abandon all restraint. It was a sudden shift, like emotion breaking through composure. The clouds cracked wider, and the downpour deepened, angry and relentless, turning the world into a gray watercolor running at the edges.

The sound of it was deafening—like a waterfall crashing against pavement, like the sky had something to say and couldn’t stop shouting.

Jinsol felt it first: a cold kiss of rain along her wrist, wind-flung drops skipping beneath the crooked awning. She glanced up instinctively, eyes narrowing at the slanted overhang, watching the water slide in heavy rivers off its edges. It wasn’t much protection anymore.

Beside her, Yoona winced as a drop struck the side of her neck. She shifted her feet and let out a soft exhale through her teeth.

“Guess even the awning gave up,” she muttered.

Jinsol didn’t answer right away. She just stepped back an inch, the edge of her damp shoe brushing the base of the wall behind her. The rain reached in again—this time along her collarbone. She flinched, then moved further back.

Yoona followed suit, inching away from the biting reach of the storm, until both of them were pressed against the wall. Not touching—but close enough that the distance between their shoulders felt charged, humming.

They stood like that, backs flat against old stone, as if the rain had pushed them into the quiet shape of the moment.

Wind curled around the awning’s edge, sending another cold spray their way. Yoona let out a breathy curse and shook her arms. Her jacket was dripping. Her hair clung to her forehead, framing her cheekbones in wild, soaked strands.

Jinsol looked over at her—really looked—and felt that same, strange ache stir in her chest. The girl didn’t look composed anymore. She wasn’t graceful or self-contained. She looked drenched and flustered, eyes bright with disbelief, lips parted like she was trying to form a thought she hadn’t yet understood.

And still, Jinsol couldn’t look away.

Yoona caught her staring, turned her head slightly—and their eyes met again.

Neither spoke.
The rain did all the talking.

It roared against the city, swept down in sheets, blurred the world just beyond their little corner. It made the space under the awning feel secret. Hidden. Like a pocket of time tucked safely away, just for them.

Jinsol hugged her bag closer, fingers tightening around the strap. “You really forgot your umbrella?”

Yoona glanced down at herself, dripping from every sleeve and seam. “I think that’s obvious.”

“Looks like the rain likes you.”

Yoona scoffed, but there was a smile behind it. “I don’t know if I’m flattered or cursed.”

A pause stretched between them. The sound of the storm grew louder, closer, as the wind began to tilt the rain at an angle, sending fine mist into the narrow space they occupied.

They both shifted at the same time, trying to tuck further into the wall, as if space would magically appear. Their arms brushed—barely—but the touch was enough to send a quiet jolt through Jinsol. Not electric. Not sharp. Just warm.

She didn't move away. Neither did Yoona.

There was something unreal about it—two strangers sheltering in a storm, bound by no promise, no plan, just the stubborn persistence of rain and the feeling of something unspoken growing between them. Something that didn’t have a name yet.

Their shoulders touched again, lightly this time. On purpose. Neither flinched.

And the rain kept falling—fierce and unapologetic, drumming out the noise of everything else. Leaving only the two of them, caught in the storm’s embrace.

The wind had started to shift.

The rain no longer fell straight down—it slanted, slicing through the air in waves that swept in under the awning, soaking everything it could reach. It was relentless now, falling like it had a personal vendetta, like it had decided that this small strip of shelter was no longer enough.

Jinsol let out a quiet sigh, long and low, the kind that had the shape of exhaustion in it. Not just from the cold or the wet, but from the weight of waiting. For the sky to clear. For the ache in her chest to quiet. For something unnamed to stop stirring every time this girl stood near her.

Without a word, she bent her knees and lowered herself to the ground.

The stone was damp. She didn’t care. Her back still touched the wall as she squatted there, grocery bag resting on her thighs, her arms loosely curled around it. Raindrops speckled the sleeves of her sweater, caught in her lashes. Her hair clung to the curve of her jaw.

From above, Yoona looked down at her in faint surprise.

“You okay?”

Jinsol tilted her face upward toward the gray sky, her brows drawn in that way people do when they’re trying not to feel too much all at once.

“I’m tired of the rain,” she said, her voice quiet but unguarded. “It keeps finding me.”

Yoona didn’t answer right away. The sound of water dripping from the edge of the awning filled the space between them.

Then, softly, she said, “It keeps finding me too.”

Something passed between them then—something shared, wordless. A mutual understanding. About more than just the weather.

Jinsol blinked, and her eyes met Yoona’s again—dark, uncertain, wide with something like recognition.

“What’s your name?” she asked, suddenly, like she couldn’t hold the question anymore. Like it had been pressing at the back of her throat this entire time, knocking to be let out.

There was no preamble. No coyness. Just a tired girl on damp concrete, looking up at someone who felt like the beginning of a story, and wanting to know how to write the first line.

Yoona blinked once, caught off guard—not by the question, but by the fact that it mattered so much to her to answer.

She crouched down too, slowly, until they were eye-level—both of them damp and quiet and tucked into a space too small for anything but honesty.

“Yoona,” she said, voice soft and steady. “Seol Yoona.”

Jinsol nodded, her gaze lingering, something unreadable dancing in her eyes. “I’m Jinsol.”

Yoona repeated it under her breath, like a secret. Like a promise.
“Jinsol.”

And though the rain still fell around them, washing the world in sound and blur, for the first time it didn’t feel quite so heavy.

Because now it had a name attached to it.
And now, so did she.

The moment had grown still.
Like time had folded itself gently around them, holding its breath.

Rain was still falling, louder than before, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore. In the narrow space under the awning, Jinsol and Yoona sat facing each other—barely talking, barely moving, as if afraid to wake the delicate thread of connection that had just begun to weave between them. It was enough, for now, just to be.

Then—
A sudden vibration. A sharp sound.

Yoona startled slightly, blinking as if pulled from a dream.

She fished into her back pocket and drew out her phone, screen glowing with her mother’s name in familiar characters. She hesitated for a breath, then answered.

“Hello?” Her voice was gentle, careful.

On the other end, a warm voice answered, tinted with background clatter—pots clinking, someone laughing in the distance. “Yoona-yah, where are you? It’s already dark. The rain’s terrible tonight.”

Yoona glanced at the storm still raging beyond their little shelter. “I know, I got caught in it. I’m fine—I found a place to wait it out.”

“Well, dinner’s ready. Your grandmother just arrived from town—she’s been asking about you since she stepped in the door. Come home soon, okay?”

Yoona smiled despite herself. “Okay. I’ll be there soon.”

She ended the call and looked over at Jinsol, already feeling the weight of the moment begin to shift—tilting, like a dream being folded away.

“I have to go,” she said quietly, with an apologetic curve to her lips. “My grandma’s visiting.”

Jinsol gave a slow nod. Her eyes didn’t betray much—but Yoona could feel something settling into the space between them. The kind of silence that comes when something is ending, even if it had barely begun.

Yoona moved to stand. She was still damp, clothes clinging to her skin, hair dripping onto her jacket collar. She reached for her phone again, probably to tuck it away, maybe to check directions home, maybe just to do something with her hands.

Then—suddenly, without a word—Jinsol stood too.

She pulled her arms up, and in one clean motion, peeled the hoodie from her shoulders.

The air was damp and cold. The hoodie clung just slightly, revealing flashes of skin as it lifted: the soft curve of her waist, the sharp line of her abdomen. Just for a second—long enough for Yoona to catch the hint of toned muscle beneath the hem of her shirt, the rise and fall of her breath, the contrast between the storm-gray sky and the warmth of skin revealed beneath it.

Yoona looked—and then looked away. Fast. Too fast.
Heat rose up her neck.

“Here,” Jinsol said simply, holding the hoodie out with both hands. “You’re soaked.”

Yoona stared at it. “But you—”

“I’m going home too,” Jinsol said with a shrug. “I’ve got dry clothes waiting. You look like you’ll turn into a puddle before you get halfway down the block.”

Yoona hesitated, then reached for the hoodie—fingers brushing against Jinsol’s as she took it. It was warm. It smelled faintly of rain and detergent and something else she couldn’t name.

“Thanks,” she said softly, not quite meeting her eyes.

Jinsol’s voice was just as quiet: “You can return it next time.”

“Next time?” Yoona glanced up then, eyes catching on hers.

Jinsol gave her a half-smile—soft, unreadable, the corners of her mouth curving like she knew a secret.

“If the rain finds us again,” she said, “I’ll be here.”

Yoona clutched the hoodie a little tighter, heart thrumming.

She didn’t say anything. She just stepped out into the rain, wearing the hoodie covering her head, and walked away with her pulse skipping like footsteps on water—each one echoing behind her, louder than the storm.

—

Dinner passed like a warm blur.

The house was full tonight—her grandmother’s soft laughter in the kitchen, her father’s voice rising over the clatter of dishes, her mother bustling between the table and the stove with that familiar rhythm of care. Yoona answered questions, smiled at old stories, let herself be folded back into the comfort of home. She ate her rice and side dishes, laughed at the way her grandmother still patted her hand after every compliment, and nodded when her mother reminded her—again—not to stay out too late in the rain.

But even as the steam rose from the soup and the conversation circled the room, part of her mind was elsewhere. Caught beneath an awning with a girl she barely knew. A girl with a grocery bag and rain in her hair. A girl who gave away her hoodie like it was nothing, like it was the most natural thing in the world to do.

Yoona kept catching herself staring out the window where the rain still softly fell. It wasn’t loud now—just a hush across the rooftops, the tired sigh of a storm that had nearly spent itself. She pressed her chopsticks together and listened, feeling the weight of something she couldn’t name pressing gently against her chest.

Later that night, after the dishes were washed and the house had quieted into soft footsteps and distant conversations, she climbed the stairs to her room.

She flicked on the light and stepped inside, pulling the hoodie over her head with slow, careful fingers. It was still a little damp around the edges, but it had held onto its warmth. She stared at it for a moment in her hands, then walked over to the far wall where her coat hooks hung.

She lifted it, gently, meaning only to hang it for now.

But as she did, the scent drifted up—subtle, clean, warm. Not perfume, not anything artificial. Just something faint and human. Something soft and lived-in. A whisper of laundry detergent and something she could only think of as Jinsol.

Yoona froze, the fabric still in her hands.

She hadn’t expected that. The scent made her chest tighten a little, like memory pressing too close. She held it there for a moment, eyes half-closed, and let herself breathe it in. Not because she was trying to be sentimental—she didn’t even know what she was feeling, really. But something about the hoodie felt like a continuation of that moment in the rain. As if it still carried the weight of it.

And maybe she just wasn’t ready to let go of that yet.

She smiled a little to herself, almost shyly. Like she’d just said something embarrassing out loud.

But then she noticed it—the dampness along the hem, the small, dark stains where raindrops had left muddy shadows. She frowned. She didn’t want it to get ruined. It didn’t seem right to hang it up like that, not when it had been given so casually and carelessly, and yet felt so strangely important.

So instead, she turned around, holding the hoodie close to her chest as she padded quietly back down the stairs, her socks whispering over the wood. The house was quieter now. Her grandmother had gone to bed, her father was in the living room half-asleep with the TV on low.

Yoona passed them all like a ghost and stepped into the laundry room.

She opened the lid of the washing machine, still warm from the last load. Folded the hoodie once, then gently placed it inside. As she added detergent and pressed the button, she paused, fingers hovering for a second longer than they needed to.

She watched the hoodie spin once, then disappear into the gathering swirl of water.

It felt a little sad, watching it go—like washing away the last trace of Jinsol’s warmth. But she told herself it wasn’t the end.

“Someday,” she whispered, though there was no one around to hear, “I’ll give it back.”

The thought made her chest feel both full and empty.

She turned and walked back upstairs, the hush of the rain now softer through the windows, and the sound of the machine humming low behind her. She didn’t know when she’d see Jinsol again. Or if. But she clung to that word—someday.

Because people don’t just appear twice in the rain by accident.
And a borrowed hoodie isn’t always just a hoodie.

—

By the time Jinsol reached home, the rain had mellowed into a mist, falling like breath against the skin—gentler now, but no less persistent. The streets shimmered under the haze, glistening like threads of silk stretched between lamplight and puddle. Her shoes squelched against the tiles of the front steps as she unlocked the door to her apartment, fingers stiff from the cold.

The moment the door swung open, warmth hit her. The familiar scent of soy candles and ginger tea floated through the air, soft jazz humming low from the Bluetooth speaker in the living room.

Inside, everything was dry and glowing.

Jinsol stepped in and closed the door behind her with a tired sigh, shaking the rain from her arms like a stray dog. Her damp white t-shirt clung to her skin, catching the heat of the room like it was trying to remind her she was safe now. That she was home.

“God, it’s cold,” she muttered to herself, hugging her arms tightly around her ribs.

From the hallway, a voice called out. “You’re back?”

A second later, Haewon appeared—her housemate, wrapped in a thick beige cardigan, holding a mug with steam curling lazily from it. She stopped mid-sip when her eyes landed on Jinsol.

Her brows furrowed. “Why the hell are you soaking wet?” she asked, blinking as she took in the state of her. “Where’s your hoodie?”

Jinsol blinked, as if the question hadn’t occurred to her yet. She looked down at herself—shirt plastered to her back, hair dripping at the ends, jeans spotted with raindrops.

“Gave it away,” she said absently, starting to tug off her wet socks.

Haewon squinted at her like she was malfunctioning. “What do you mean gave it away? That’s your favorite hoodie.”

Jinsol shrugged one shoulder, a half-smile flickering at the corner of her lips. “Someone else needed it more than me.”

Haewon followed her into the living room, watching her like she was a puzzle missing one essential piece. “Okay, romantic mystery novel vibes aside… who was this someone?”

Jinsol didn’t answer right away. She disappeared into her room for a moment, and Haewon could hear the soft rustle of drawers, the opening of her closet. When she returned, she had a towel in one hand and was pulling on a dry sweatshirt with the other.

Haewon was still waiting, eyebrows raised.

“It was the girl from the awning,” Jinsol said finally, toweling her hair with slow, thoughtful movements. “Same one I ran into last week.”

Haewon blinked, her mug still raised midair. “The one you told me about? From the first rain?”

Jinsol nodded once.

Haewon’s lips parted, like she had about five more questions, but something in Jinsol’s face stopped her. Not silence exactly—but that rare, drifting look she only got when her head was still halfway elsewhere. Like she hadn’t completely come back from wherever she'd just been.

“She didn’t have an umbrella,” Jinsol added after a beat. “And she looked… I don’t know. Cold. I just gave her the hoodie. Didn’t think about it.”

“Except you are cold,” Haewon pointed out, not unkindly. She stepped forward and wrapped her spare cardigan around Jinsol’s shoulders, still holding her mug in the other hand. “And now I’m picturing you doing your little silent hero act while half-freezing to death.”

Jinsol chuckled under her breath, but it came out low and almost distracted. “It’s fine. I’ll get it back someday.”

“Sure,” Haewon said, half-smirking now. “You accidentally-on-purpose gave away your favorite hoodie to a pretty stranger in the rain. Totally normal.”

“She’s not a stranger anymore,” Jinsol said, a little too quickly, and then paused. Her fingers stilled against the towel. “…Her name’s Yoona.”

Haewon grinned then, wide and bright. “Ahhh. Okay, now it makes sense. You’re done for.”

Jinsol rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. She only smiled quietly to herself as she stepped into the kitchen, the cardigan swishing around her legs, her hair still damp, her skin starting to warm.

She stood by the kettle, watching the water come to a boil, and thought of Yoona in her hoodie—how it probably looked too big on her, sleeves covering her hands. How her voice had sounded when she said thank you, low and soft like a secret being shared.

Jinsol didn’t know when she’d see her again.

But she hoped she would.

Maybe to get the hoodie back.
Maybe for something else.

Each morning, Yoona reached for her phone before anything else.

Not to scroll through messages or check her feed—those things felt distant now, too full of noise and people saying too many things that didn’t matter. Instead, she opened her weather app, the one with the little blue cloud icon. Her thumb tapped it automatically now, like muscle memory, like ritual.

Clear skies. 24°C. Slight breeze from the south.

She stared at the screen in disappointment, her lips pressing into a pout. Not even a single cloud in sight. Just sun. Relentless, blazing sun.

And she hated herself for it, but for the first time in years, she found herself wishing against the sunshine. She wanted grey skies, wind-tossed leaves, the feeling of humidity rising through the air like something was about to break. She wanted puddles and umbrellas and that quiet hush that rain brought to the world. She wanted to hear the patter of water on rooftops and see the roads shimmer again.

No—what she really wanted was to go back to that moment. The awning. The quiet. The nearness of a girl she’d only just met, but couldn’t stop thinking about. She wanted to return the hoodie. Yes, that was her excuse. A good one, a logical one. She just wanted to give back what didn’t belong to her.

But deep down, she knew the hoodie had become more than just fabric.

It hung on the back of her chair now, freshly washed and neatly folded. She hadn’t put it back in the closet. Something about that felt too final. She liked seeing it there, a quiet reminder. Sometimes she reached out and brushed her fingers over the sleeve, wondering if Jinsol missed it. Wondering if Jinsol even remembered her at all.

Because how ridiculous was it to think about someone this much after only two short meetings?

You don’t even know her last name, she told herself. You barely know anything at all.

But she knew the slope of her shoulders. The way she bent her knees when she was tired. The way her voice softened when she asked for a name. And Yoona remembered the sharp flicker of warmth that bloomed in her chest when Jinsol had taken off her hoodie—quickly, carelessly—and handed it over without a second thought, as if that kind of kindness came naturally to her.

She kept checking the forecast.
Morning and night.
No rain.
No clouds.
Just heat, thick and golden, crawling up the walls of the city.

The news didn’t help. One morning, as Yoona was pouring milk into her cereal, her mother called out from the living room, “Looks like summer’s coming early this year!”

Yoona paused mid-pour. “What?”

“The news,” her mother said, not looking away from the screen. “They’re saying it’ll be hot for the next few weeks. Hardly any rain. Perfect beach weather.”

Yoona set the milk down and looked out the window. The sky was a painful blue—wide, cloudless, merciless.

Perfect beach weather.
But not perfect for meeting someone under the rain. Not perfect for recreating the quiet magic of an accidental moment.

Still, she hoped.

Each time she passed that street on the way to the convenience store, or to the bus stop, her eyes would flick toward the little awning. Empty, every time. But she always slowed her steps. Just in case. Maybe Jinsol would be there, groceries in hand again, waiting out the impossible sunshine. Maybe she'd be wearing something else that didn’t smell like rain, but still felt like her.

Maybe she'd say, “I was wondering if you'd come back.”

Maybe Yoona would finally say, “I have your hoodie.”

But for now, the sky stayed blue, and the sun kept burning.

And Yoona, hopeless and hopeful all at once, kept waiting for the clouds to roll in again.

Because sometimes, a girl just wants it to rain.
Not to get wet.
But to find something she didn’t know she’d been missing—
and maybe, to return it.

The days grew hotter.

Sunlight pressed down on the city like a hand that wouldn’t let go, warming the pavement until it shimmered with mirage, chasing the last traces of spring into the cracks. The rain felt like a dream now—something too soft and distant to have ever been real. But Jinsol remembered it. Not the storm, not the thunder. She remembered her.

And so, even in the rising heat, even as her white t-shirts stuck to her back and the cicadas began their summer chorus too early, she found herself wandering the same roads again. Roads she didn’t really need to walk. Roads that took her past the awning, past the corner near the bookstore where the windows always fogged up when it rained. Roads that felt like memory.

She told herself it was just the scenic route. A change of pace. Good to walk more. Good to clear her head.

But every time she turned the familiar corner, every time her steps echoed against the warm concrete and the bookstore bell rang faintly in the background, her eyes flicked up.

And Yoona wasn’t there.

Not leaning against the wall. Not standing beneath the awning. Not hurrying through the rain with her hands over her head, muttering to herself about the weather, completely unaware of how endearing she looked.

Just heat and sun and dust on the windows. Just Jinsol, alone, walking slower than she needed to.

She didn’t know why she expected to see her again. What were the chances, really? Seoul was a city that swallowed people whole—full of lights and crowds and noise. Two meetings under the same strip of roof didn’t make a pattern.

But something in her refused to let go.

She hadn’t meant to give the hoodie away. Not really. It wasn’t planned. She’d only seen Yoona there, shivering slightly, her dark hair damp and sticking to her cheeks, brushing at her clothes like she could shake the rain off with sheer will.

She looked so annoyed. So alive.

And when Jinsol had taken off the hoodie, when her fingers brushed Yoona’s as she handed it over, she’d caught the way her eyes flicked away—like she'd seen something she wasn’t supposed to.

That moment kept replaying, again and again, when the city quieted at dusk and the fans whirred in the windows and Haewon wasn’t around to ask her what she was thinking.

The thing was—she wanted the hoodie back. But not because she missed the comfort of fabric, or because it was her favorite, or because Haewon kept teasing her about how she gave it away “like a tragic love story.” No, she wanted it back because it was an excuse. A tether. A reason to see her again and say, So, did you keep it safe for me?

But every time she passed the awning, Yoona was still just a memory in the rain.

And she began to wonder—what if that was all she’d ever be?

Still, she walked that way again the next day.
And the one after that.

Even when the sky blazed and the pavement burned beneath her soles, she passed by slowly, a little too hopefully.

Because some hearts are stubborn.
And sometimes, hope looks like walking the long way home,
just in case the universe decides to be kind.

—

It started slowly.

A single drop. Then two. Then a soft rustling overhead, like fingers brushing across silk. The city didn’t notice it at first. It was too busy—cars humming down avenues, people buried in their phones, the sun still hanging behind a veil of clouds, not quite ready to disappear.

But Jinsol noticed.

She always noticed the rain now.

She had no umbrella with her, as usual—some part of her never remembered, or maybe didn’t want to. She tilted her head up just slightly and let a drop kiss her cheek, cool against the heat of the day. It had been so long since the last time. Since the awning. Since her.

She walked slower.

Her steps, once hurried, softened, meandering now like a melody without tempo. The world around her began to change. People ducked into shops. A motorbike sped past, leaving a splash in its wake. The clouds rolled over the sky like waves of wool, and the wind picked up with the scent of something nostalgic—wet pavement, drenched leaves, the distant echo of summer breaking apart.

And without fully thinking about it, Jinsol turned onto the familiar street.

The bookstore stood where it always did, old and quiet and full of stories. The awning stretched above the sidewalk like a welcome, fabric darkening with every drop that hit it. She moved beneath it, breath slow, fingers running through her hair.

At the same time, Yoona was coming from the opposite direction.

She’d forgotten her umbrella too—but for once, she didn’t mind. In fact, when the rain started falling, she didn’t run. She walked. Slowly. Carefully. Like she didn’t want to scare the moment away. The air was thick and cool now, and her heart beat faster with every step that brought her closer to a street she hadn’t dared walk on in weeks.

And when she saw the bookstore’s sign flickering under the rain, she let out a small breath.

What if…

They reached the awning at the same time.
Neither one saw the other until it happened.

Their shoulders brushed.
Just a whisper of contact—but it was enough.

Jinsol turned first, instinctively, already forming the words of an apology.
“Oh, I’m sor—”
But her voice faltered.

Yoona turned too, eyes wide, breath caught halfway between disbelief and something closer to wonder.

And for a moment, time slowed.

The sound of the rain faded behind the rush of blood in their ears. The city fell away. The bookstore, the cars, the flickering lights—all became a blur behind the focus of two gazes locked together again under the same piece of sky.

“…Yoona?” Jinsol’s voice was barely a whisper. Like saying it too loudly would break the spell.

Yoona nodded slowly, her lips parting, her voice caught between laughter and breathlessness. “It’s you.”

And then they just stood there, under the low shelter of the awning, letting the rain draw its curtain around them. A secret shared between two people and the sky.

Jinsol let out a soft laugh, dazed and quiet. “What are the odds?”

Yoona was still staring, as if trying to convince herself that this wasn’t just a daydream. That Jinsol was really there, tall and rain-kissed, hair damp, eyes warm, and just as impossibly real as before.

“Maybe…” she said slowly, carefully, “the rain likes us.”

Jinsol’s smile bloomed like something inevitable. “Rain’s been good to us, hasn’t it?”

Yoona nodded, blinking against the drizzle that the wind was now blowing under the awning’s edge.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy with everything they didn’t know how to say yet.

And in the hush of that moment, with water pattering around them and the streetlights glowing like fireflies in the distance, it was easy to believe that maybe—just maybe—the rain was trying to bring them back to where they belonged.

Because some people meet in cafes.
Some people fall in love at parties, on subways, in quiet classrooms.

But some stories?
Some are written beneath the rain.
And if they’re lucky—if the world is kind—they get a second chapter.

The rain didn't stop.
It danced on the awning above them, fell in slanted threads past the edge, curled against the soles of their shoes. But neither of them moved. The world could wait. The moment felt too delicate to disturb, as if a single step might send it scattering like mist.

Yoona still held her bag close to her chest, fingers lightly grasping the handles as if anchoring herself. She glanced down at it, then up at Jinsol again—her heartbeat quickened, pulsing against her ribs like it had something to say. Something she couldn’t quite translate.

“I, uh…” she started, the words catching in her throat. “I still have your hoodie.”

Jinsol blinked. “You do?”

Yoona nodded, awkward and sheepish, already slipping the fabric from her bag. It was neatly folded, tucked carefully between a book and a bottle of water, corners aligned like it meant something more than clothing.

“I washed it,” she added, as if that made it better. “I was going to hang it in my room, but it was still damp from the rain, so I… yeah.”

She extended it, arms slightly shaking—not from fear, but from the strange electricity of standing this close again, of handing something back that had been with her for weeks. Her fingers lingered on it for a second longer than needed, then let go.

Jinsol took it gently.

And for a flicker of time, she didn’t say anything.

Just held the hoodie, running her thumb along the sleeve, as if remembering what it felt like to wear it. It was clean now—Yoona had said so—but it still felt warm. Not physically, but in the way things do when they’ve been held carefully. When someone else has given them meaning.

She looked up at Yoona, her mouth opening to say thank you, but something else came out instead.

“Did you… want something in exchange?”

Yoona blinked. “What?”

“For returning it,” Jinsol said, eyes flicking down for a second, then back up. “I mean, you waited. And you washed it. And it’s been, what… weeks?” She gave a half-laugh, mostly to herself, trying to cover up the nerves rising in her chest.

Yoona shook her head, already smiling. “I didn’t return it for that. I just… I guess I wanted to give it back. Properly.”

But Jinsol still hesitated. Her fingers curled around the hoodie tighter.

She wanted to say something else—something bolder, maybe, something that had been sitting quietly in the back of her mind since the first night. The thought of Yoona under the rain. The accidental touch of shoulders. The way her name had sounded when spoken aloud, soft and uncertain.

And then the words came. Clumsy. Honest.

“Well, maybe I can still give you something.”

Yoona tilted her head slightly, curious. “Like what?”

“My number,” Jinsol said, too quickly, too quietly.

Then, realizing how it must’ve sounded, she added with a rushed breath, “I mean, only if you want it. Not because you gave me this back. I just thought maybe… I don’t know. If it rains again. Or doesn’t. Just, you know. In case.”

She was rambling, and she knew it. Her cheeks flushed with heat, not from embarrassment alone, but from how much she suddenly wanted Yoona to say yes. To say okay. To take it, to text her, to not let the story end here under the same awning it began.

Yoona looked at her, quiet for a moment. And then—softly, sweetly—she smiled.

“I’d like that,” she said.

And just like that, Jinsol exhaled—like she’d been holding her breath for days.

She fished her phone from her pocket, rain-speckled screen still unlocked, and held it out.

Yoona took it, her fingers brushing lightly over Jinsol’s, a brief contact that sent something fluttering through the still air between them. She typed in her number slowly, carefully, like each digit mattered.

And when she handed it back, their eyes met again.

Not by accident this time.

Not because of a bump, or the weather, or coincidence.

But because they wanted to.

Outside, the rain still fell.

But beneath the awning, two names now lived in each other's phones.
And a story that had once been carried by chance was slowly becoming one written by choice.

The moment Yoona hit save on Jinsol’s contact, her screen bloomed with a soft vibration—
a notification.

“New arrival! 15% off tonight only! Your favorite shop closes in 20 minutes.”

Her eyes widened, and a quiet gasp escaped her lips.

“Oh no—” she mumbled to herself, tapping on the screen, then turning her gaze toward the end of the street. “I forgot… it’s just down there. I wanted to check it out before they close…”

Jinsol blinked, caught mid-smile. “Where?”

Yoona pointed, already half-turning as though time were dripping like the rain, slipping past her grasp. “The vintage paper store. They’ve got old books and prints and—I don’t know, weird things. I like weird things.”

Jinsol’s smile stretched wider.

She glanced at the rain still falling, then at Yoona’s bare head—her hair slowly beginning to curl at the edges, damp strands brushing her cheek. And without another word, she reached up to unzip her jacket.

“Here,” she said, tone casual, like it wasn’t a grand gesture at all.

She shrugged out of her leather jacket with practiced ease, revealing the snug white crop tank top underneath—its hem dancing just above her waist, the fabric clinging to her frame. Yoona’s eyes flicked up—then down—then immediately away, the sight of toned abs and defined arms flashing through her like static, short-circuiting her brain for half a second.

Don’t stare, she told herself. Stop staring. Stop. It.

“I’ll cover you. Let’s go.”

Before Yoona could object, Jinsol had already stepped forward, draping the jacket carefully over her head and shoulders, shielding her from the worst of the rain like a canopy of black leather and warmth.

Jinsol’s hand lingered gently on the small of Yoona’s back, guiding her forward, and then—

They ran.

Down the rain-slick sidewalk, laughter slipping between them, the kind that comes when you’re not sure what’s happening but it feels right anyway. Their footsteps splashed through shallow puddles, and the city blurred at the edges like a watercolor—streetlights glowing golden through the mist, the smell of rain rising from the asphalt, and the world soft around them.

Jinsol, still mostly bare-armed, didn’t flinch against the cold. If anything, she seemed charged by it, like the rain woke something up inside her. She looked over at Yoona every few steps, checking the jacket hadn’t slipped, that she was still close.

And Yoona?

She didn’t say much.
She couldn’t.

Because all she could think about was how warm Jinsol’s jacket was.
How strong her arm had felt when it steadied her from slipping.
How the skin at her shoulder had glistened faintly under the rain.

And how fast her own heart was racing—not just from running.

The shop came into view—light flickering in the window, a shopkeeper already starting to pull in the display. Yoona let out a triumphant breath, pointing with glee.

“There! We made it!”

Jinsol slowed beside her, grinning, her shoulders damp but eyes sparkling. “Told you I’d get you here.”

Yoona looked up at her, jacket still clutched around her like a shield—and maybe just a little like a gift.

“You really didn’t have to,” she said, cheeks flushed and breath short.

“I wanted to,” Jinsol replied, and there was no hesitation in it. Just certainty.

And maybe something else, too—something unnamed, something that hovered in the air between them like steam from rain on warm pavement.

They stood there a moment longer before Yoona ducked into the shop, breathless and glowing, the jacket still wrapped tight around her like armor. Like memory.

And outside, Jinsol watched her go, water dripping from her fingertips, heart humming louder than the storm.

She didn’t know what this was yet.
But she knew she wanted to find out.

The bell above the door chimed gently as Jinsol stepped inside the shop, a low chime that echoed faintly behind the closing rain. The scent of old paper, candlewax, and forgotten ink greeted her like a hush—like the walls were whispering secrets from another time. The world outside felt far away now, blurred behind a pane of wet glass.

Yoona had already wandered near the middle of the store, fingers brushing gently along the spines of old books. But when she heard the door, she turned—only to find herself caught breathless in place.

There, framed in the soft amber glow of hanging bulbs and the shimmer of rain on her skin, stood Jinsol.

She walked with the kind of quiet confidence that wasn’t loud but certain. Her white crop tank top clung to her, still damp, a little transparent now in places—but it wasn’t the clothing that stole Yoona’s attention.

It was the way she moved.

Jinsol lifted one hand and ran it slowly through her hair, brushing it back from her face. Wet strands slid between her fingers, and for a moment, her sharp jawline caught the warm light just so—like it had been carved with intention. Drops of rain lingered on her neck, trailing down like small secrets.

And Yoona—
Yoona forgot how to breathe.

She watched the slope of her shoulder, the quiet strength in her arms, the way her collarbone emerged beneath the thin fabric. Her fingers, long and clean, touched the corner of a display stand as she walked past it, leaving a faint trail of water in her wake.

Yoona’s eyes darted away quickly—too quickly, almost embarrassed by herself—but then flicked back just as fast, like they had a mind of their own.

Why is everything about her so perfect? she thought, her heart tightening in her chest.

It wasn’t just her looks. It was how she filled a room—calm but present, like gravity. Like someone the universe paused for. Like she could walk into any moment and belong to it.

Yoona turned back to the shelf in front of her, pretending to read the back of a book she wasn’t actually holding. Her hands were suddenly too warm. Her thoughts too loud.

Get a grip, she told herself.

But then she heard footsteps near her, soft and deliberate.

Jinsol had walked over, just close enough to peer at the books beside her, shoulder barely an inch from touching hers. She leaned forward, eyes scanning the spines, and let out a soft hum of interest.

“I like this place,” she murmured, voice low and rich. “Didn’t think we’d find magic after running through the rain.”

Yoona nodded, not trusting her voice just yet. She focused on the book in her hands, even though the words had long since blurred.

And then—without looking up—she said quietly, “You’ve got rain on your neck.”

Jinsol chuckled under her breath. “Should’ve let you keep the jacket.”

“I think I’m the one who should be lending you something now,” Yoona said, finally glancing at her, finally letting her eyes meet hers.

And there, in the middle of that quiet shop, surrounded by old books and older stories, something pulsed between them again—quiet, warm, alive.

Something neither of them quite had words for yet.

But it was there.

And it wasn’t going anywhere.

The sky had calmed by the time they stepped out of the shop—
no longer a downpour, just a gentle drizzle that kissed the pavement with tiny whispers. The night had settled into its softness, wrapped in quiet lights and the hush of a city catching its breath.

They stood just outside the door, beneath the same awning that had cradled their first meeting and their second and now this—this quiet in-between where time felt slow and deliberate.

Yoona clutched the small paper bag in her hands, inside it a little book she’d found with pressed flowers between its pages and someone’s delicate handwriting scrawled in the margins. Jinsol had said it looked like her kind of treasure.

Jinsol stood beside her, arms crossed now, damp hair curling slightly at the ends. She looked both tired and lit from within, as though something warm had been planted behind her eyes and hadn’t stopped glowing since.

Neither of them said anything right away.

Goodbyes always came too early.

Yoona turned to her, smiling gently. “Thanks again… for running with me. And the jacket. Again.”

Jinsol shrugged like it was nothing, but her smile curved shy and proud all at once. “Anytime.”

The silence settled again, like dew. And just as Yoona began to take a step toward the street, Jinsol spoke—her voice low, careful, like it had taken a few extra seconds to form the courage.

“Hey,” she said.

Yoona paused, turning back. “Yeah?”

Jinsol’s hands slid into the pockets of her jeans, and her gaze dropped for just a breath—then lifted again, steady now, but gentler than before.

“Before you go,” she said, “can I ask you for one more thing?”

Yoona blinked. “Sure.”

But Jinsol didn’t speak right away. Her throat worked around the words for a second longer, and then—

“Would it be okay if I see you again?”

Not by accident.
Not if it rains again.
Not because of a hoodie or an awning or the weather playing matchmaker.

But because she wanted to.
Because this time, she was asking.

“I mean,” she went on, rushing now, “not just at the bookstore. Or under a roof. Just—sometime. You could pick the place. Or we could grab coffee. Or do something weird like read poems in the park, if that’s your thing. I’m not good at this.”

She laughed a little, soft and sheepish, and looked down at her shoes. Then back at Yoona.

“I just don’t wanna leave this up to the weather again.”

Yoona stood there, frozen in a kind of warmth she hadn’t known her body could carry. She stared at Jinsol, her sharp jaw, her rain-wet hair, the nervous way she bit the inside of her cheek. And beneath all that, the honesty in her words—raw and a little vulnerable.

She nodded slowly, the smile blooming on her lips like something wild.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”

Jinsol let out a breath, one she’d been holding without realizing, and it escaped her like a quiet laugh.

“Good,” she murmured, almost to herself.

They stood like that for another moment—eyes locked, hearts quieter now but full. The rain continued to fall in the distance, but beneath the awning, all was still.

“Text me when you get home,” Jinsol said, as Yoona finally turned to go.

Yoona looked back over her shoulder. “Only if you promise to text first next time it rains.”

Their eyes met.

A promise traded in smiles.

And then Yoona walked away, leather jacket in her bag, paper-wrapped book in her hand, and Jinsol’s voice quietly echoing in her heart—

I just don’t wanna leave this up to the weather again.

—

Yoona was smiling.
No—grinning.

Not the polite kind. Not the careful one she wore at dinner or the bashful one she gave her mom when teased. This was the kind of smile that bloomed wide across her face, unrestrained, bright and youthful and completely out of her control.

She floated into the house like a feather caught in a gentle breeze. Her shoes barely made a sound on the wooden floors, her bag swinging lazily from her shoulder. Her mom called something about leftovers, and Yoona just waved, murmuring, “I already ate,” though she hadn’t, not really. Who needed food when their whole chest felt full of light?

By the time she reached her room, the smile had grown impossibly wider. She closed the door with a soft click, leaned her back against it, and let out the happiest sigh she'd ever exhaled. Then, with a little squeal—one she would deny under oath—she threw herself onto the bed.

Her big bunny doll waited there, plush and patient. Yoona grabbed it immediately, hugging it to her chest as if it were Jinsol herself, warm and solid and slightly rain-scented. She rolled onto her side, then her back, then face-down into the mattress, kicking her feet like a girl half her age, muffling her giddy laughter into the cotton fur.

“She asked to see me again,” she whispered into the bunny’s floppy ears. “She wanted to see me again.”

It didn’t feel real.

Jinsol, with her bold gaze and quiet voice. Her jawline that could cut paper and her hands that moved like they’d been sculpted to hold old books and new hearts. Jinsol, who had stood under the bookstore light like a dream, had asked for her.

Not fate. Not rain.
Just her.

Yoona grabbed her phone from the nightstand and stared at the saved contact. Bae Jinsol. The name looked soft on her screen. It felt like the beginning of something she couldn’t name yet—but desperately wanted to follow.

She turned to her bunny again and whispered, “I think I’m in trouble.”

And then she laughed, full and golden, letting it echo through the room.

Across town, in a slightly messier apartment—

The door creaked open and slammed shut again with a rush of damp wind and energy.

Jinsol entered like a spark, cheeks pink from the weather or something warmer, her white crop tank top still a little clingy from the earlier rain. Her hair was half-dried and wild at the ends, her breath caught in her throat from a run she hadn’t quite finished.

“Hey—what the hell—why are you smiling like that?” Haewon called from the living room, a bag of chips in her lap and a sitcom playing in the background.

Jinsol didn’t answer right away. She toed off her shoes quickly, took two large steps forward—

And then jumped.

Right into the middle of the room, hands raised high and landing with a soft bounce on the couch, where Haewon nearly dropped her chips.

“I GOT HER NUMBER!” Jinsol burst out, voice like a firecracker in a quiet night.

Haewon blinked. “Who’s—wait. Wait.”

Jinsol dropped dramatically to her knees in front of the couch, gripping Haewon’s shoulders as if the world hinged on her disbelief.

“Yoona.” She said her name like a spell. “Rain girl. Under-the-awning girl. Beautiful-smile, books-and-rain-and-accidental-meet-cute girl.”

Haewon’s eyes widened. “That Yoona?”

Jinsol nodded furiously, her wet hair swinging with each motion. “That Yoona.”

Haewon dropped her chips. “No freaking way.”

Jinsol laughed and collapsed onto the floor, arms stretched out wide, eyes fixed on the ceiling like she could see constellations forming from memory alone. “She gave me her number. We talked. We went to that weird bookshop. She let me run with her in the rain.”

She placed a hand dramatically over her chest. “I’m not even cold anymore. That’s how strong this happiness is.”

Haewon raised an eyebrow, but her smile was unmistakably amused. “Wow. You’re really gone for her, huh?”

Jinsol grinned. “If this is being gone, then I don’t wanna come back.”

And the room filled with soft laughter, with the warmth of the kind of moment that only comes after something quietly wonderful happens.

The clock had just slipped past 11:30 p.m. The world outside Yoona’s window was still damp with rain, the streetlights shining golden halos onto puddled sidewalks. Her room, however, was bathed in a softer glow—the muted warmth of her bedside lamp, the hush of night tucked around her like a blanket. She lay curled on her bed, one arm still wrapped around her bunny doll, her phone balanced on her chest.

A buzz.

[Bae Jinsol: 11:34 PM]
Did you get home safe?

Yoona’s heart fluttered. She sat up a little straighter, her thumb hovering over the screen. Just the thought of Jinsol texting first—of thinking about her—sent a warm shiver up her spine.

She replied quickly, fingers dancing across her screen.

[Yoona: 11:35 PM]
Yes!! Home now!!
Still a little damp but alive hehe ☔️🐰✨
Thanks for saving me again

A moment passed. Then another buzz.

[Bae Jinsol: 11:36 PM]
I should start charging rain rescue fees.
But I’ll give you a discount. For you only.

Yoona grinned so wide her cheeks hurt. She flopped back onto her pillows, kicking her legs once like a giddy child, then typed again.

[Yoona: 11:37 PM]
Then I’ll keep forgetting my umbrella on purpose
Let’s call it… fate maintenance ☁️

[Bae Jinsol: 11:38 PM]
lmao "fate maintenance"
I’m gonna steal that.

They kept going. Texts pinged back and forth like a soft game of catch, gentle and playful. Yoona sent a photo of her bunny doll half-squished beneath her arm, captioned:

[Yoona: 11:41 PM]
this is the only one who knows how much I’m smiling rn
don’t tell anyone

Jinsol’s reply came with a snapshot of her kitchen counter: a half-empty mug of cocoa, a bag of soggy chips she forgot to close, and her legs stretched out in cozy socks.

[Bae Jinsol: 11:42 PM]
he knows too
this is bob. he’s judgmental but loyal.

Yoona laughed out loud, the sound muffled into her pillow, before sending a photo of her hand holding the tiny book they got from the shop, its cover damp but still lovely.

[Yoona: 11:44 PM]
thank you for this too. I think it found me before I found it
I read one of the notes inside. It said “Some people appear like seasons, but stay like constellations.”
I feel like that’s you.

There was a pause. Three typing dots blinked on her screen. Then disappeared. Then came back.

[Bae Jinsol: 11:47 PM]
yoona.
that line’s gonna live in my head rent-free.
now I have to up my game and send you poetry back.

A moment later:

[Bae Jinsol: 11:48 PM]
“You’re like rain in summer—unexpected, needed, and alive.”
Boom. Look at that. Free verse.
Don’t ask how long I thought about it.

Yoona smiled, quiet and full, her fingers hesitating on her screen. And then, letting herself be a little brave, she typed:

[Yoona: 11:50 PM]
then maybe I’ll write you a poem one day too.
but you gotta promise to read it in the rain.

[Bae Jinsol: 11:51 PM]
only if I get to hold the umbrella for both of us.

They stayed like that for a long time—laughing over dumb memes, sending selfies with messy hair, talking about favorite songs, old cartoons, strange fears, and things they never usually shared past midnight. And somewhere between messages, without either of them saying it aloud, they both realized something rare was blooming.

Not forced. Not chased. Just growing, like something quietly watered by fate and the softest kind of hope.

Eventually, the night stretched long and sleep began to pull gently at their eyes.

[Yoona: 1:12 AM]
okay okay I need to sleep before I start dreaming about umbrella taxes and judgmental mugs
but… I really liked talking to you.

[Bae Jinsol: 1:13 AM]
me too. more than you know.
sleep well, bunny.
I’ll text you tomorrow. Maybe even without rain this time.

Yoona clutched her phone to her chest and whispered into the quiet,
“Please do.”

And far across the city, Jinsol placed her phone face-down, smiled into the ceiling, and whispered back to no one,
“I already can’t wait.”

—

The days had turned soft again—less heat, fewer thunderstorms, just warm light and leaves rustling in the breeze. Weeks had passed since that first rain-drenched encounter, and in that time, Yoona and Jinsol had been carving out space in each other's lives. One message at a time. One sleepy phone call at a time. Like a garden they both quietly watered without asking if the other would stay.

And then finally—
a day.

A free day.
A day that belonged only to them.

They agreed to meet in front of the bookstore. The same one where fate, or whatever force had a sense of humor, had made them bump shoulders twice. This time, though, it wasn’t coincidence. It wasn’t rain.
It was choice.

Jinsol got there early.
Of course she did.

She stood across from the bookstore, hands buried deep in the pockets of her black jeans, sneakers scuffed from pacing. A dark green shirt clung softly to her frame, the sleeves rolled up, exposing her forearms—strong, slightly tanned, and twitching from nerves.

She checked her phone.
No messages.
No missed calls.

She’s coming, she told herself, for the third time in ten minutes. You’re not being stood up. She said she’d be here.

But still, her heart wouldn’t settle.
It was knocking on her ribs like it was trying to break free.

She kept looking down the street, pretending to scroll through her phone, pretending not to check her reflection in the bookstore window. She’d spent an embarrassing amount of time getting ready that morning. Was the cologne too much? Did her hair look weird from the wind? Should she have worn something more casual?

Then—
she saw her.

Yoona.

Walking down the street like a painting set in motion. Light denim skirt brushing against her knees, a white cardigan wrapped loosely over a pale yellow blouse. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, soft strands escaping and dancing around her cheeks. There was a slight breeze, and it caught the hem of her skirt, made her look like she stepped out of a daydream.

And Jinsol—who had been rehearsing cool hellos in her head for two days—forgot all of them.

She straightened quickly. Swallowed hard. Her tongue felt like sandpaper, her palms were suddenly sweaty, and her throat—her traitorous throat—closed up the moment Yoona met her eyes and smiled.

“Hi,” Yoona said, breathless but bright. Her eyes sparkled like she’d been waiting for this moment forever.

Jinsol tried to say hi back. Really, she did.

What came out was:
“Hi—heh—I mean, hey. Hi. Yeah. Yoona—hi.”

She cringed internally. What the hell was heh?

Yoona tilted her head, clearly amused. “Hi… twice?”

“Triple,” Jinsol muttered, her hand already rubbing the back of her neck, face burning. “Sorry, I just—uh. You look—”

Yoona raised an eyebrow. “I look…?”

“You look like,” she said, then paused, mouth opening and closing, “like a Sunday morning. Like... soft. And... like wow.”

Yoona blinked.

“Like wow?” she repeated, laughing. “Is that your final answer?”

Jinsol covered her face with one hand. “Please let me start over.”

But Yoona just smiled—soft, sweet, and maybe even a little shy. “It’s okay. I’m nervous too.”

“You?” Jinsol asked, completely incredulous. “You’re out here looking like a slow-motion commercial for springtime. How are you nervous?”

Yoona laughed again. That sound—light, genuine—relaxed something in Jinsol’s chest. She dropped her hand, finally finding her footing as they stood there, the buzz of the street fading into something distant.

“Well,” Yoona said, nudging her shoulder gently into Jinsol’s arm, “I was wondering if you were going to show up. You know, since I made you wait the last two times.”

Jinsol’s smile returned then—slow and crooked. “I would’ve waited all day.”

Yoona looked away, cheeks warming. “Cheesy.”

“I practiced it.”

She laughed again. “You did not.”

“I did,” Jinsol said solemnly. “In front of the mirror. Twice.”

And just like that, the nerves dissolved—not entirely, but enough for something easier to bloom in their place. A calmness. A rhythm.

Jinsol gestured toward the bookstore. “Want to go in?”

“Sure,” Yoona said, walking beside her. “But only if you promise not to say ‘heh’ again.”

Jinsol groaned, covering her face one more time. “I’ll never live that down.”

But Yoona just smiled and tugged lightly on the hem of Jinsol’s sleeve as they stepped inside.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered.
“I liked it.”

The bookstore welcomed them like an old friend. It smelled of ink and weathered paper, of stories folded between spines and shelves that rose like city blocks made of dreams. The wooden floor creaked under their steps, soft jazz music humming low in the background, as though it knew to stay gentle in the presence of something blooming.

Yoona led the way, drifting between aisles like a breeze, fingers brushing the edges of covers, pausing now and then when a title caught her eye. Jinsol followed just behind, close enough to feel the faint trace of Yoona’s perfume—a sweet, citrus thing that made her heart tug in ways she couldn’t explain.

They didn’t speak at first. It was the kind of silence that wasn’t heavy or awkward, but rather sacred. A shared hush, as if both of them were trying not to break the magic of simply being there together. Yoona paused in front of a small poetry section. She picked up a slim, navy blue book, turning it over in her hands.

“This one,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Jinsol. “It’s full of poems written like confessions. Like the kind you write and never send.”

Jinsol stepped closer. Close enough that her breath stirred the ends of Yoona’s hair. She leaned in, just slightly, one hand resting on the edge of the shelf as she peered down at the page Yoona had opened.

The poem was small, only six lines, but it lingered like perfume in the air:

“I didn’t know your name when I first missed you.
But I missed you anyway.
Like rain that doesn’t fall.
A letter without address.
A door that never closed.
Still, I waited.”

Yoona didn’t say anything. She just held the book, her thumb rubbing over the corner of the page. Jinsol, still bent slightly beside her, whispered, “Isn’t that… exactly how it felt?”

Yoona turned to her, startled. “How what felt?”

“That day under the awning,” Jinsol said softly. “When I didn’t know your name. But I couldn’t stop thinking about you after.”

Yoona looked at her, wide-eyed, lips parted like a reply was caught somewhere between breath and thought. But she didn’t speak.

So instead, she closed the book and stepped to the side, scanning the next shelf.

Jinsol followed.

They talked softly then—about poems, about favorite childhood books, about how Yoona used to believe trees could talk and how Jinsol once tried to build a treehouse and ended up stuck for two hours until her cousin brought a ladder.

Somewhere between laughter and leaning shoulders, Yoona paused again, this time in front of a row of pastel-colored journals.

“Oh,” she said, smiling faintly, “I used to have one of these. But mine’s more plain now.”

“You still keep a diary?” Jinsol asked, genuinely curious.

“Yeah,” Yoona nodded. “Every night. Or most nights. It helps me clear my head.”

Jinsol tilted her head. “So… do you ever write about me?”

Yoona froze.

The question hung in the air between them, feather-light and earth-shaking all at once. Jinsol hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Or maybe she did, and she just didn’t expect to be heard so clearly. But Yoona’s fingers stilled on the spine of the book in front of her. Her lips parted like she might answer.

But she didn’t.

She just looked at Jinsol, her expression unreadable—something between caught off guard and flustered—and then turned away, quietly moving toward another part of the store.

She didn’t answer.

Jinsol stood there, heart caught in her throat, watching Yoona disappear behind a tall shelf of novels. And though a small pang of uncertainty bloomed in her chest, it was accompanied by something else, too—something warmer. Because Yoona didn’t laugh it off. She didn’t say no.

She just didn’t answer.

And sometimes silence says everything.

So Jinsol smiled to herself, just a little, and followed after her.

After the bookstore, the world outside had grown warmer, more golden, like the sky itself was leaning down to listen in on their afternoon. The sun stretched long fingers across the streets, casting shadows from trees and shop signs, turning even the concrete into something gentle.

“Let’s get something cold,” Yoona had said, shielding her eyes from the light as they stepped outside. “I feel like I’m melting.”

Jinsol had agreed immediately—not just because of the heat, but because every second spent beside Yoona felt like sunshine inside her ribs, and she didn’t want it to end.

They walked to a nearby café, tucked between a florist and a tiny boutique. The sign was written in cursive gold letters, and the inside smelled like vanilla and roasted espresso beans. Inside, the cool air wrapped around them like relief, soft music humming over the quiet clinking of cups and whispered conversations.

Yoona ordered a chocolate smoothie with pearls—her favorite. The drink looked almost like a dessert, dark and rich, thick with sweetness. Jinsol chose the strawberry cookie smoothie, which came in a pastel pink shade with little crushed bits of biscuit on top. They added two cupcakes to the order—lemon cream and red velvet—and found a small table by the window, bathed in soft light.

Yoona stirred her drink, watching the pearls swirl and float.

“You always get chocolate?” Jinsol asked, taking a slow sip of her own smoothie. She scrunched her nose. “Mine’s so sweet it’s almost a crime.”

“That’s the point,” Yoona giggled. “What’s the use of summer if you’re not drinking something that makes your teeth hurt?”

Jinsol laughed and picked up her lemon cupcake. It was small, frosted with a sunny swirl of buttercream and topped with a sugar flower. She took a big bite without thinking, and immediately her eyes went wide.

“Oh,” she said through a mouthful. “Oh my God.”

Yoona watched her with amused eyes. “That good?”

Jinsol didn’t answer—just nodded, closed her eyes, and let herself melt into the flavor. It was the most expressive Yoona had seen her all day, her features so animated, childlike in delight. Her lips were curved in a smile even as she tried to chew properly, and—

—and smeared in yellow icing.

It was just a tiny smear, right on the corner of her lower lip, but something about it made Yoona laugh. Maybe it was how unbothered Jinsol looked, completely blissed out by sugar. Or maybe it was just… how cute she looked. Like someone who wasn’t afraid to enjoy things wholeheartedly.

Yoona reached across the table without thinking, her finger brushing gently along the curve of Jinsol’s mouth, wiping the icing away.

“Messy,” she whispered, smiling.

Jinsol blinked, suddenly still, her lips parting just slightly as Yoona brought her finger back and wiped it on a napkin. Their eyes met—just for a moment—and something soft bloomed between them. Like the air had gone still. Like time had leaned in.

Yoona looked away quickly, mumbling more to herself than anything else, “Shouldn’t be allowed to look that cute while eating.”

But Jinsol heard it. Every word.

She didn’t say anything at first. She just stared at Yoona—this girl who laughed easily, who touched her like it meant something, who wrote in diaries and drank chocolate like it was the cure to everything. Her heart fluttered in a way that felt both terrifying and beautiful.

“You’re the one who wiped it,” Jinsol teased, voice softer now.

Yoona shrugged. “Couldn’t let you sit there with icing all over your face.”

“Could’ve told me,” Jinsol said, leaning a little closer over the table. “But you didn’t.”

Yoona bit her straw. “You wouldn’t have looked as adorable trying to clean it up yourself.”

That made Jinsol laugh again, low and warm. She leaned back in her chair, taking another sip of her smoothie, but her eyes never left Yoona—not really. There was something in her gaze now. Something gentle. Something certain.

Outside, the sun moved slowly across the windowpane.
Inside, hearts beat a little faster.
And neither of them wanted to go home just yet.

Later, when their cups were empty and the last crumbs of lemon icing had vanished from the table, they stepped back out into the world.

The day had mellowed. The sun, no longer harsh, hung soft and golden above the rooftops, casting a warm hush over the pavement. The air carried the scent of pavement dust and fading blossoms, a little breeze dancing through the hem of their clothes and the loose strands of Yoona’s hair.

It was one of those rare afternoons when the weather felt tailor-made—neither too hot, nor too cool. Just right. As though the universe had dialed down all discomforts to make room for something gentle.

They walked without any real direction, letting their feet follow the curve of the sidewalk, brushing past low garden fences and old lampposts. It was familiar here—both of them had wandered these streets alone before. But now, walking together, it felt different. Like the world had decided to reveal its softer corners.

Yoona talked more than she usually did. Maybe it was the sugar still lingering in her veins, or the way Jinsol listened—so fully, so deeply, like every word mattered. Or maybe it was just something about this day, this quiet hour, that made her feel safe enough to peel back the layers of her voice.

She talked about her school days. The time she and her best friend tried to paint a mural and ended up spilling half the paint on themselves. The time she cried in front of a teacher and swore she’d never tell anyone. She spoke of her grandmother’s garden, how she used to press little purple flowers into books when she was a child, believing they could preserve memories.

Jinsol said little, but her eyes never left her. And Yoona, when she wasn’t lost in memory, would glance at her every now and then, her cheeks blooming with a quiet pink whenever their eyes met.

But Jinsol didn’t even notice how much she was staring—until the street reminded her.

She had been looking at Yoona again, admiring the way her hands moved when she talked, the soft lilt of her laughter, the curve of her lips as she said the word “marigold.” She didn’t see the uneven stone sticking slightly up from the pavement.

Her foot caught.

It happened in half a second—a stumble, a little gasp, her body tilting forward into the open air.

Yoona turned just in time.

“Ah—Jinsol!”

Jinsol managed to catch herself, one foot sliding forward, arms instinctively reaching out. She didn’t fall—just bent awkwardly, almost like she was bowing to the sidewalk. Yoona burst into laughter, rushing forward to steady her with both hands on her arms.

“Are you okay?” she giggled, eyes wide, breath catching between concern and amusement.

Jinsol looked up, her cheeks glowing now with something brighter than just the sun. “Yeah,” she muttered, trying to compose herself. “Just… forgot how to walk for a second.”

Yoona tilted her head, her smile still glowing. “Or maybe you were just too busy staring?”

Jinsol froze.

Yoona had said it teasingly—but she hadn’t missed the way Jinsol’s eyes had been on her, the way her gaze softened like it was tracing something important. And now, Jinsol looked like she wanted to disappear into the sidewalk crack.

“I—I wasn’t staring,” she tried, but the lie was weak even in her own ears.

Yoona just laughed again, this time quieter. Sweeter. She reached out and gently brushed something invisible off Jinsol’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I don’t mind.”

And for a second, the wind stopped. The world leaned in once more.

Jinsol straightened up, heart thudding, lips curving into something shy. “You make it hard not to.”

Yoona looked away then, her smile reaching her ears.

They kept walking after that, shoulder brushing shoulder now and then, words returning slowly. But the silence between them had changed—it had grown warmer, fuller, like a secret blooming under sunlight.

And though the street still stretched long ahead of them, neither was in a rush to get anywhere.

Not when here already felt like the beginning of something.

They walked until the sky began to bloom in color—
soft strokes of peach and lavender painted across the canvas of clouds,
the day slowly folding itself into dusk.

The wind had settled into a light hush, and the world moved slower, as if nature itself had paused to take in the hour. The sound of the river nearby became clearer now, the gentle lapping against stone and the rustling reeds on the bank. As they neared the water, the view widened—trees bending over the path like guardians, the golden sun dangling low in the west, brushing light over the ripples.

Yoona pointed toward a bench under one of the willows, its leaves whispering in the breeze. “Let’s sit?” she asked, her voice almost carried off by the wind.

Jinsol nodded, and they settled into the worn wooden seat. It creaked a little beneath them, but neither of them minded. It felt like a bench made for moments like this—old and patient, waiting for stories and silences.

For a while, they just watched. The horizon stretched far ahead, the river catching the reflection of the sky like it was drinking light. Birds flew low in V-shaped groups, their wings silvered in the sun. The whole world had turned golden-blue, and nothing felt rushed anymore.

Jinsol leaned back, her legs stretched out in front of her, and then—quietly, casually—lifted one arm and draped it across the back of the bench. Not touching Yoona. Just hovering near. Like a question hanging in the air.

Yoona felt it immediately. The warmth of Jinsol’s presence close to her shoulders, the barely-there space between them. Her breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t move. She didn’t need to. Somehow, that almost-embrace was louder than a touch.

“This,” Jinsol murmured, nodding toward the sky, “might be my favorite part of the day.”

Yoona turned her head toward her. “The sunset?”

“Yeah,” Jinsol said, her voice lower now, thoughtful. “It’s like the world slows down just enough to feel real. Like it finally breathes.”

Yoona smiled, tucking her knees up slightly on the bench. “When I was younger, I thought sunsets were sad,” she said. “I hated watching the day end. It felt like saying goodbye to something.”

“But now?” Jinsol asked.

Yoona looked back at the sky, the sun dipping lower with each breath. “Now I think… they’re just soft endings. Not sad, just—kind. Like a reminder that even endings can be beautiful.”

Jinsol turned her head to look at her. The breeze caught a few strands of Yoona’s hair, and she reached up instinctively to tuck them behind her ear. Jinsol wanted to help, but she didn’t. She just watched, memorizing how the colors of the sky kissed Yoona’s cheekbones and made her eyes shine.

“You sound like a poem,” Jinsol said softly.

Yoona laughed, glancing at her sideways. “You’ve been spending too much time around me.”

“Not enough,” Jinsol murmured.

Yoona’s eyes fluttered down. Her fingers traced the edge of the bench. The wind picked up slightly, carrying the smell of river water and old stone and something warm between them.

“Do you think the sun knows we’re watching?” Yoona asked suddenly, like the question had been tucked inside her all along.

Jinsol tilted her head. “Maybe. But I think it would set the same either way.”

“Then why does it always feel like it’s doing it just for us?” Yoona whispered.

Jinsol didn’t answer right away. She just looked out at the golden river, her lips barely parted. Then slowly, very slowly, she let her fingers slide a little—until the tips of them brushed lightly against Yoona’s shoulder. Not gripping. Just resting. Like a note held on the edge of a song.

“I don’t know,” she said, barely above a breath. “But I hope it does.”

And together they watched the last sliver of sun dip beneath the earth,
the sky catching fire and then fading into violet,
and the space between them shrinking with the fall of light.

Just as the last ember of the sun dipped beneath the horizon, the sky exhaled into twilight. Faint stars began to glimmer, peeking between indigo clouds, and the wind grew cooler, tugging at the sleeves of their clothes. The river continued to hum its quiet lullaby beside them, and for a moment, it felt like the world had paused just for them—like nothing outside this bench, this shared silence, could touch them.

But then Yoona’s phone rang.

It vibrated first, humming against her leg like a soft nudge, then lit up with her mother’s name. The familiar ringtone cut through the stillness, and with a quiet sigh, Yoona picked up.

“Hello?” she said gently.

Her mother’s voice, warm and bustling, filled her ear. “Where are you, Yoona? It’s getting dark. Dinner’s almost ready. Your dad just came home and your grandmother’s been waiting to eat with you. Come back now, okay?”

Yoona smiled softly, already feeling the thread of home tugging at her. “Okay, umma. I’ll be there soon.”

She ended the call and glanced at Jinsol, who had turned her head slightly, listening with a half-smile like she knew exactly what that call meant.

“Your mom?” Jinsol asked, brushing her thumb along the edge of the bench.

Yoona nodded, standing slowly. “Yeah. I should go. She wants me home for dinner.”

Jinsol stood up too, stretching a little. “Of course. Family calls.”

Yoona reached for her bag, slinging it across her shoulder. She turned to say goodbye, but Jinsol was already a step closer, that same quiet look in her eyes.

“Wait,” she said, voice low. “I’ll walk with you.”

Yoona blinked. “Oh—you don’t have to, it’s fine. I’m used to walking home alone.”

“I know,” Jinsol said. “But I want to.”

There was a pause—gentle, not awkward. Just full of the unspoken.

Jinsol scratched the back of her neck, her cheeks flushed slightly in the dimming light. “Besides,” she added, softer now, “it’s safer that way. I wouldn’t feel right letting you walk by yourself at night.”

Yoona’s heart gave the tiniest stir at that. The way Jinsol said it—quietly, without a trace of bravado, just concern wrapped in sincerity—made something ache in the softest part of her chest.

“…Okay,” she said finally, a small smile curling at the corners of her lips. “Then let’s walk.”

And so they did.

They walked slowly down the path, the gravel crunching lightly under their feet, the river trailing beside them like a silent companion. Streetlights blinked on one by one, casting amber halos across the pavement. Their shadows stretched and intertwined as they moved.

There was something different about walking together now. It wasn’t like before—rushing to avoid rain, ducking beneath awnings, hearts racing from accident and weather. This time, there was no need to hurry. Every step was quiet and meaningful, like the distance between them had finally become something sacred.

They talked in low voices—about dinner dishes they missed from childhood, about neighborhood cats they sometimes saw near the bookstore, about how stars never quite looked the same in photographs.

And every now and then, Yoona would glance up at Jinsol, her face softened under the streetlight glow, and wonder if this—this—was how it started.

Not with a confession. Not with fireworks. But with footsteps shared on a quiet road. With a girl who said, “I want to walk with you.”

When they reached the street corner near Yoona’s house, they both slowed down.

“This is me,” Yoona said, gesturing to the familiar garden gate a little ways ahead.

Jinsol nodded, hands tucked in her jacket pockets. “Got it.”

Yoona turned to her fully now, illuminated by a streetlamp that buzzed faintly above. “Thanks… for walking with me.”

“Anytime,” Jinsol replied. Then, with a smirk, “Just don’t make a habit of getting called home every time we’re together. Or I’ll start thinking your mom has bad timing.”

Yoona laughed, covering her face briefly with her hand. “She just knows, I guess.”

They stood there for another heartbeat, the air thick with something unnamed.

“Goodnight, Yoona.”

“Goodnight, Jinsol.”

But neither moved right away. Not until Yoona took a step back, toward the gate. She turned one last time, smiling. “Text me when you get home?”

Jinsol’s expression softened completely. “I will.”

And as Yoona slipped inside the gate, Jinsol stood under the streetlight a moment longer, watching her disappear into the warm yellow glow of home.

She touched her phone in her pocket, not to check the time, but to feel that number there—like a promise.

And then she turned and walked into the night,
a little lighter than she’d ever been.

—

The days drifted by with a strange kind of slowness, the kind that only happens when you’re waiting for something you don’t want to admit you’re waiting for. Schedules clashed. Errands piled up. Family matters called Yoona to quiet dinners and long weekends. Jinsol had early shifts and unexpected errands that stretched into the evening. Their feet never seemed to meet on the same pavement again, and the bookstore bench sat lonely under the sky.

But their phones never stayed silent.

They filled the empty spaces with text bubbles and late-night photos: snapshots of the sky, of meals, of street cats and forgotten poems in used books. Voice notes came next—Yoona humming softly when she walked home from the library, Jinsol chuckling as she described a customer who thought cucumbers were a fruit.

And every night, one of them would say goodnight before sleep reached the other. It became a rhythm neither of them acknowledged aloud, but both of them counted on.

Then, one night—quiet and moon-washed—Yoona called.

It was just past 10:43 PM, and Jinsol had been curled up on her couch, the television humming low in the background, when her phone lit up with Yoona’s name. No text this time. A call.

Jinsol immediately answered. “Hey.”

There was a small pause—then a soft inhale.

“Hi…” Yoona's voice came through, quiet and wrapped in sleep. That one word alone made Jinsol sit up a little straighter.

“You sound tired,” Jinsol said, voice warm.

“I just got into bed,” Yoona murmured. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. But I thought of you and… I dunno. I pressed the call button without thinking.”

Jinsol smiled into the darkness of her living room. “I’m glad you did.”

Yoona giggled—light, breathy, the kind of laugh you only hear when someone’s limbs are heavy with sleep but their heart is full. “I was thinking… about the last time we walked home. You said my mom has bad timing.”

“She does,” Jinsol replied, grinning. “She always calls right when the moment’s getting good.”

“Mmm,” Yoona hummed, burying herself deeper into her pillow. Her voice dropped even softer. “This feels like a good moment too…”

Silence fell for a second, but not the kind that begs to be filled. Just soft, sleepy silence. Like lying beside someone in the dark.

“Are you in bed too?” Yoona asked after a while.

Jinsol glanced down at herself—curled in her hoodie, legs tucked under a blanket. “Not yet. But I might be soon.”

Yoona yawned, long and gentle. “Sorry if I woke you…”

“You didn’t,” Jinsol said. “I was just thinking about you too.”

Another pause. Yoona didn’t answer, but Jinsol could hear the tiniest sound from the other end—like a sigh, maybe even a smile.

“You have your sleepy voice on,” Jinsol said, lowering her own tone to match.

“I do?” Yoona mumbled, already halfway gone. “You like it?”

“I think it’s dangerous,” Jinsol whispered. “You could make someone fall for you with that voice.”

Yoona laughed again, muffled in her blanket. “Stop…”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re too nice to me.”

“I’m just telling the truth.”

The rain didn’t fall that night, but it almost felt like it should have. The way the world was so still, so intimate—just the sound of their breathing, their distant laughter, the occasional shift of sheets or the creak of a floorboard. It was a kind of closeness no storm could bring. Just two voices touching in the dark.

“…Jinsol?” Yoona whispered after a long stretch of silence.

“Mm?”

“If I fall asleep while we’re talking… don’t hang up right away, okay?”

Jinsol’s smile returned, softer now. “Okay. I’ll stay a while.”

And so she did.

Even after Yoona’s voice grew slower, quieter, until it became shallow breaths and sleeping murmurs. Jinsol stayed, phone pressed to her ear, listening like one listens to waves.

She whispered goodnight once more, even though Yoona wouldn’t hear it. Or maybe she would, in a dream.

And when she finally hung up, the night felt a little brighter.
As if her voice had left a trace in the dark,
and Jinsol could follow it all the way until morning.

Jinsol stared at her phone screen for a moment after ending the call, the quiet of her room folding gently around her. The glow of the screen lit her face faintly, and though she was alone, she felt a warmth that hadn’t left since she heard Yoona’s voice.

She opened their chat, thumb hovering over the keyboard, thinking of a dozen things she could say. She could be witty. She could flirt. She could say something casual like “Sleep tight.” But none of them felt right.

So she typed what her heart whispered in the stillness.

you sounded really cute tonight.
hope I get to hear you like that again sometime.
sweet dreams, yoona.

She stared at the message for a breath or two, wondering if it was too much. But it wasn’t. Not when it was the truth. And so she hit send.

Then she turned off her lamp and lay back into her pillow, smiling softly to herself, the ghost of Yoona’s sleepy voice still lingering in her ear.

She fell asleep that night with her phone held loosely in her hand, the last thing she saw was Yoona’s chat bubble glowing back at her in the dark.

—

It had been a week of sunshine and restless skies, where every cloud threatened but never delivered, every breeze teased but never stayed. Yoona had been checking the forecast every morning again, quietly hoping for something gray—something soft and falling. Not because she hated the sun. But because the rain reminded her of Jinsol. Of beginnings. Of hearts warming under cold skies.

And then one afternoon, the thunder roared.

It was sudden, like a deep growl ripping through the sky’s chest. People around her startled—some laughed, others quickened their steps—but Yoona stopped in place, her eyes lifting toward the clouds that had darkened faster than she’d expected.

It was happening.

Within seconds, the heavens opened, and the first drops fell like whispers. Then it came all at once—the heavy, urgent downpour of a sky too full to hold back. Yoona clutched the strap of her bag and ran, her feet splashing against puddles as she made her way through the familiar street.

She didn’t even think. Her legs knew the way.
She ran straight to the bookstore.
To the awning.

And there she stood.

The fabric above her head had seen this before—had seen two strangers pressed shoulder to shoulder, with rain clinging to their hair and silence folding softly between them. But now it was only her. Alone beneath the shelter, the world drenched in silver streaks and the sound of water hitting pavement like a song.

Yoona caught her breath, wiping raindrops from her cheek and shaking the ends of her hair. Her heart was racing, not from the run, but from the quiet, aching hope she hadn’t told anyone about. The hope that maybe… maybe she wasn’t the only one who would come here again.

She waited.

At first, she told herself she was just resting. That maybe the rain would let up soon and she'd go on her way. But her eyes kept flicking up the street—right where Jinsol always came from, right where their paths had once collided.

People passed by, heads bent under umbrellas. Cars rolled through puddles with soft, dragging sighs. A pair of kids giggled and ran for cover, a dog barked in the distance. But not her.

Not Jinsol.

Yoona’s fingers twisted in the edge of her sleeve. The rain was colder now, slipping past the edge of the awning in wind-blown sprays. She stepped back until her shoulders touched the brick wall behind her, the same way they had on that first day. But now the wall was too wide. There was no warm presence beside her. No squatting figure to ask her name.

She pressed her head lightly back against the bricks, staring out at the street as the rain painted the world in a thousand tiny ripples.

Maybe she’s not coming this time.

The thought was quiet, and it hurt more than she expected it to. Not because Jinsol promised anything, not because they had a pact—but because her heart had silently believed in that small magic. That the rain would bring them together, the way it always had before.

Yoona bit her lip, trying not to let the disappointment show on her face even if no one was there to see it.

She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her sweater and closed her eyes for a second. Let the sound of the rain fill her ears. Let herself feel the ache of wanting.

Still she waited.

And somewhere inside her, she whispered:
Please… if you're coming… let it be now.

The minutes crawled.

Yoona didn’t count them—not exactly. But she felt them. In the way her fingertips turned cold inside her sleeves, in the way her knees grew stiff from standing too still. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, arms crossed tightly over her chest, eyes darting toward the corner of the street again… and again… and again. But the street remained empty. The rain, however, was full of life. And it had no plans to stop.

At some point, she stopped checking the time. Stopped wiping the mist from her phone screen. Stopped pretending she was just taking a short break.

She had waited.

And Jinsol hadn’t come.

Maybe it was foolish. Maybe she had let herself believe too much in the magic of the rain, in the invisible string that seemed to tug them together every time the skies broke open. Maybe those moments were only coincidence, and she had been the one attaching meaning to them.

So, finally, she gave up.

She stopped hoping.

But she couldn’t leave.

It wasn’t just the rain anymore. It was a thunderstorm—wild and merciless. The wind howled and curled like a living thing, tugging at the edge of her umbrella until she knew it would be useless out there. Lightning split the sky somewhere above the tall buildings, followed by a deep, aching rumble that shook the ground beneath her feet.

Yoona flinched. The thunder had never bothered her before, not really. But tonight it felt different. It felt closer. It sounded angry. Like the world was yelling at her for hoping. For waiting.

The awning barely protected her anymore. Wind carried the rain in sideways sheets, soaking the hem of her skirt, creeping cold up her legs. Her hair was damp, sticking to her cheeks. Her socks were wet, and the chill had started to settle into her bones.

She hugged herself tighter.

The thunder cracked again, louder this time—sharp and violent—and she shut her eyes for a moment, breathing in sharply. She hated how her chest jumped. How her fingers curled. She hated the feeling rising in her throat—tight and quiet and just shy of tears.

For the first time in a long while…
since the first day she stood under this awning and met a stranger with a crooked smile and a hoodie that smelled like sun and warmth—
she hated the rain.

Because Jinsol wasn’t here.

Because the rain didn’t bring her this time.

Because now, it just made her cold, and scared, and small beneath a sky that wouldn’t stop shouting.

Yoona pressed her back against the brick wall and slowly slid down until she was sitting, knees pulled to her chest. Her umbrella sat folded at her side, useless. Her phone stayed in her bag. Her voice stayed inside her.

And still, the rain fell.

She stared out at the empty street, lips parted slightly, her breath fogging into the storm air.

“Where are you…” she whispered to no one.

The words were too quiet to be heard over the thunder.

But she said them anyway.

And in the rain that no longer felt like magic, she waited a little longer.

Not because she believed anymore.

But because her heart didn’t know how to stop.

The storm had swallowed the world.

The rain poured in sheets so heavy it blurred the city into trembling watercolors. The thunder rolled like gods moving furniture in the sky, again and again, shaking windows, rattling hearts. The awning barely held back the downpour now—it dripped, it shivered, it groaned against the force of the wind. And Yoona, small and soaked and trembling at the edges, sat curled against the wall like a forgotten flower beaten down by weather.

She had almost lost the feeling in her fingers. Her cheeks were wet, not just with rain, but with tears she didn’t bother to hide anymore. Her arms hugged her knees close, her breath quick and uneven. The world felt too loud. Too wide. Too wet. And she was starting to believe no one was coming.

Then—

A voice.

“Yoona!”

The name cracked through the storm like lightning, sharp and clear, a sound so unexpected her head jerked up, eyes wide with disbelief.

And there she was.

Jinsol.

Running toward her through the rain, nearly soaked through despite the black umbrella she gripped tightly in one hand. Her hoodie stuck to her skin, her hair was a damp mess of gold plastered against her cheeks and neck. Her jeans clung dark and heavy to her legs. But her eyes—those deep, searching eyes—were focused only on Yoona.

Yoona stumbled up to her feet, legs stiff and heart slamming. She didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate.

She ran straight into her.

And wrapped her arms around Jinsol as tightly as she could.

The umbrella slipped from Jinsol’s hand and hit the ground with a soft thud, forgotten. Her arms moved quickly, instinctively, wrapping around Yoona’s shivering frame and pulling her in close. They stood there under the broken awning, under the furious sky, two hearts pressed together like lifelines.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” Yoona said, her voice small and cracked.

“I’m so sorry,” Jinsol breathed, her hand already rising to cradle the back of Yoona’s damp head, fingers gentle in her tangled hair. “I came as fast as I could. I— the train got delayed and—”

Another thunderclap split the sky like an explosion. Yoona flinched hard in Jinsol’s arms, her entire body tensing like a string pulled tight. Then she buried her face against Jinsol’s chest, gripping the fabric of her shirt as if it could anchor her to something steady.

“I’m scared,” Yoona whispered into the soaked cotton.

“I know, I know,” Jinsol murmured, pressing her lips against Yoona’s hair. “I’m here now. I’ve got you.”

The thunder growled again, but this time Yoona stayed, hidden in Jinsol’s warmth. Jinsol shifted slightly, holding her even tighter, shielding her from the worst of the wind with her own body. Her chin rested lightly on top of Yoona’s head. One hand stroked slow lines across her back. The other never stopped cradling her skull.

“You’re okay,” she said softly. “You’re not alone. I promise.”

Yoona’s breath shook, caught between sob and sigh. But slowly, slowly, her fists loosened. Her heartbeat began to match the steadier rhythm of Jinsol’s. The rain didn’t stop, but for a moment, it didn’t matter.

Because even in the middle of the storm, she was safe.

She was found.

The thunder had quieted, just a little. Enough for the sound of falling rain to take center stage—soft and persistent, like a lullaby composed by the sky. The storm, though still alive, began to breathe slower.

But Yoona wasn’t thinking of the sky anymore.

All she could see… was her.

Jinsol stood with her arms wrapped around her like a shelter made of warmth and quiet strength, her soaked shirt clinging to her frame, her jaw set with worry, her eyes filled with nothing but Yoona. It was all too much. Too gentle. Too kind.

Yoona tried to hold it in, but her heart had already cracked open. The storm inside her poured out, unrestrained.

Her breath hitched, and a sob escaped before she could stop it.

Jinsol pulled back just enough to look at her—her face streaked with rain and tears, her lips trembling. Without a word, Jinsol cupped Yoona’s face in both hands, her thumbs brushing softly against her wet cheeks, wiping away what the rain couldn’t hide.

“Hey,” she whispered, her voice low, velvet-soft, laced with worry and something deeper. “You’re crying so much… You’re breaking my heart.”

That only made Yoona cry harder. Her shoulders shook. Her hands gripped Jinsol’s arms, grounding herself in the only thing that felt real.

“I—I don’t know why you’re so kind to me,” she stammered between hiccups, voice raw and fragile. “You… you treat me like I matter. Like I’m something soft you want to protect. And I don’t know why it makes me feel like this but—”

She choked on the words, tried again.

“I—Jinsol…”

Jinsol leaned in, just slightly. Just enough to be close. To listen. Her hands still cradled Yoona’s face like something precious.

Yoona swallowed. Her lashes were clumped with tears, her lips trembling.

“I like you,” she whispered.

Jinsol blinked slowly, as if the world had stopped spinning.

Yoona’s voice came again, steadier now, though tears still traced rivers down her cheeks. “I think I’ve liked you from the very beginning, even when I didn’t know your name. Even when you were just a stranger with a smile in the rain. I didn’t know why I kept thinking about you, why I kept waiting, hoping—why I’d check the weather just to see if it would rain again…”

Jinsol said nothing. She just looked at her, gaze soft, unreadable. Listening with her whole being.

“And when you hold me like this,” Yoona whispered, her voice breaking on the edges, “when you’re gentle like this, I just… I want to cry. Because it makes me feel safe. And seen. And loved, even if you never said it.”

The rain continued to fall, a steady hush that wrapped the city in its arms. The street was empty, the world quiet. It felt like there was no one else, no place else—just the two of them beneath the broken awning, hearts beating too loud for such a small space.

Yoona’s breath shook again.

“I like you so much it hurts, Jinsol.”

And then… silence.

A quiet thick with feeling.

Jinsol’s eyes glistened in the dim light. Her thumbs stayed on Yoona’s cheeks, still brushing, still tender.

Then she let out a breath, so soft it could’ve been mistaken for the wind.

“Yoona…”

She stepped even closer, closing the last small space between them. Their foreheads nearly touched. Rain clung to their hair, their lashes, their lips. Jinsol’s voice was low and warm when it came again.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear that.”

The air between them held its breath.

Yoona’s tears hadn’t stopped. Her cheeks were slick, her nose pink, her eyes shimmering pools of everything she couldn’t say—because her heart was too full, her body too small to hold it all. And Jinsol… Jinsol was still standing close, her hands framing Yoona’s face like she was something fragile carved from moonlight and rain.

Then Jinsol smiled.

Not the charming smile Yoona had seen before. Not the shy, slightly crooked one when she didn’t know what to say. This smile… this one was slow. Deep. The kind of smile that came from the soul. A smile that said I’ve been holding this for too long.

And then she spoke.

“Yoona,” she began softly, her voice rich with emotion, “you don’t even know the half of what you’ve done to me.”

Yoona blinked through the tears.

Jinsol continued, her thumbs still caressing wet cheeks, her gaze never leaving hers.

“I thought I was fine before I met you. I thought I had enough. I had my music, my quiet routines, my little world where nothing ever shook too hard. But then you came running through the rain like a scene from a film I didn’t know I needed to be in. And you didn’t even notice me that first day—not really—but I couldn’t forget you.”

Her voice cracked slightly, not from nerves, but from feeling.

“And every time I saw you again, even by accident, it was like the universe was tugging me gently by the collar saying, ‘Look. There she is again. Look closer this time.’”

Yoona’s lips parted, her breath catching, her tears coming faster. She wanted to respond, to say something—anything—but Jinsol kept going, her voice now barely above the rhythm of the rain.

“You’re… beautiful, Yoona. Not just the kind that people see and compliment. You’re beautiful in that terrifying way—where I want to protect every part of you without asking why. The way you talk, the way your eyes get soft when you listen, the way you laugh like you forgot the world could be cruel. You make me want to be gentler with everything, just in case it reminds me of you.”

Yoona let out a sound—half sob, half breath—and her knees nearly gave out. But Jinsol caught her again, her arms now wrapped around her fully, steadying her.

“I’ve fallen for you, Yoona. Slowly at first, and then all at once. And I didn’t know how to say it—not in a normal way, not in the way people expect. But I feel it. In every small thing. In every time I text you goodnight. In the way I check the bookstore street even when I know I won’t see you. In the way I replay your voice in my head like it’s the last song before sleep.”

Yoona cried harder, her face pressed against Jinsol’s shoulder now. Her fingers clenched at the fabric of Jinsol’s shirt, and her body trembled with the weight of it all—of being seen, of being cherished so wholly, so gently.

Jinsol whispered into her hair:

“You don’t have to say anything else. Just let me stay by your side. Just let me make you smile. That’s all I want.”

And Yoona, through the thick curtain of tears, nodded against her shoulder.

Because this—this was the kind of love that didn’t need perfect timing or grand gestures.

This was the kind of love that bloomed under storms.

Quiet. Unshakable.

Real.

The rain finally settled—not stopped completely, but softened into a quiet drizzle that kissed the pavement like an apology. The storm, once angry and loud, had grown tired. Its rage exhausted, leaving behind only puddles that reflected the city lights and the slow breaths of two hearts finally at rest.

Jinsol held the umbrella over them both, her fingers laced tightly with Yoona’s, as if letting go now might somehow unravel everything they’d just shared. The cold still clung to their clothes, the weight of water making each movement feel heavier, but their hearts felt lighter than ever.

They walked without rushing, shoes splashing through puddles, warmth rising between their joined hands.

Yoona hadn’t said much since she cried in Jinsol’s arms. Her head was slightly lowered, her free hand brushing away lingering tears from her cheeks. The kind of silence that hovered between them wasn’t awkward—it was sacred. A hush the world gave them, so that love could breathe.

The bus station wasn’t far—just a small glass shelter with a bench and flickering overhead light. Empty at this hour. Quiet.

They stepped under the cover together, the soft hum of rain on the rooftop above them echoing like a lullaby. Jinsol closed the umbrella, shook off the droplets gently, and leaned it beside the bench. Then she guided Yoona to sit with her.

For a while, they just sat there, side by side. Not touching. Just breathing the same air.

Yoona raised her hand to her face again, wiping beneath her eyes. Her lashes still held droplets like tiny stars. Her skin glowed softly beneath the pale light. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were parted like she wanted to say something—but the words hadn’t yet formed.

And Jinsol watched her.

Her eyes moved carefully, reverently—from Yoona’s delicate profile to the way her damp hair clung slightly to her temple, to the trail of tears that still shimmered faintly on her jaw. And then, barely audible, a breath of sound slipped from Jinsol’s lips.

“...Pretty.”

She hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It was the kind of thought she usually kept to herself—tucked deep in her chest, wrapped in quiet awe. But it escaped her, carried on the softness of the rain, and once spoken, it hung between them like a secret offered with open hands.

Yoona turned her head.

Her eyes met Jinsol’s.

And for a second, the whole world slowed again.

“What did you say?” she asked gently, almost shyly.

Jinsol looked away for the first time, suddenly aware of her own words. A faint blush bloomed on her cheeks, visible even in the low light.

“I said you’re… pretty,” she replied, more clearly this time, her voice roughened slightly by nerves. “Even when you cry. Especially when you cry. Not because I want you to cry, but—just…”

She faltered, then laughed quietly at herself. “I don’t know how to say things like this without sounding dumb.”

But Yoona smiled, her heart fluttering like a bird stirring awake in her chest. She looked down, hiding her face behind her knees for a moment, before peeking up again—eyes sparkling with something warm, something new.

“You’re the only person who could say that and make me feel like it’s the most beautiful thing in the world.”

Jinsol looked at her again then, fully, her eyes soft and glowing.

And for a while, they just stayed like that.

Two hearts under a glass roof. Two hands still holding on. The rain a gentle hum in the background. And a kind of love that needed no more lightning or thunder to be felt.

Just this.

Just them.

Just quiet.

It didn’t take long for the rain to stop completely.

The last of it faded like a song’s final note, leaving only the hush of a world rinsed clean. The city looked softer now—bathed in warm shades of orange and rose gold. Clouds broke open like curtains, letting the sky bleed its colors across rooftops and windows, across the wet pavement still glistening with memory.

The air smelled like earth and hope. Like something beginning again.

Jinsol walked beside Yoona, the silence between them no longer shy, but glowing. Comfortable. Familiar in its sweetness. The bus station had faded behind them, as had the storm. Now there were only footsteps echoing gently on the road, and the occasional laughter of people who also dared to step out after the rain.

Yoona had stopped crying.

Now she smiled as she walked, fingers brushing against her skirt, occasionally looking over at Jinsol with an expression that made Jinsol’s heart forget its rhythm.

For the first stretch of the walk, they didn’t speak.

But the silence said everything.

It was a quiet promise that tonight would linger forever in their minds, that love had gently cracked its way open beneath an umbrella, in the shelter of thunder, and now it bloomed with every step they took under the orange sky.

Jinsol’s hands were in her pockets.

She kept glancing at Yoona.

Her heart was loud. So loud.

Should I? Should I not?

Her mind wrestled with itself.

And finally, after several more steps, she pulled one hand out of her pocket, slowly, carefully… and reached toward Yoona’s.

It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t sweeping or dramatic.

It was slow.

Like a thought turning into action. Like courage being born in real time.

Her fingertips brushed the back of Yoona’s hand once, lightly, uncertainly.

Yoona looked down in surprise, then up at Jinsol.

And that was when Jinsol finally curled her fingers into hers.

Their hands fit like they were always meant to. Like puzzle pieces the universe had been quietly aligning, one rainy day at a time.

Yoona didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at their joined hands, a soft laugh escaping her lips—bright and breathy like sunlight breaking through clouds.

Then she said, teasing but warm, “You’re shy now?”

Jinsol blinked, flustered. “What?”

Yoona looked at her with a playful smile, her thumb gently brushing over Jinsol’s knuckles. “You just confessed to me like your life depended on it, and now you’re shy just holding my hand?”

Jinsol flushed a deep red, looking away toward the streetlamp.

“I didn’t think about it that way,” she muttered.

Yoona giggled again, that bell-like sound that always made Jinsol’s stomach do somersaults. “It’s cute. You’re cute.”

Jinsol groaned softly, covering part of her face with her other hand. “Don’t say things like that, I might melt.”

Yoona nudged her shoulder. “I’d catch you.”

They walked a little slower after that, savoring the softness of the evening. Their shadows stretched behind them, long and golden. The breeze was light now, whispering through trees, brushing against their clothes and hair. Jinsol’s heart, still reeling from everything, calmed a little more with every squeeze of Yoona’s fingers.

No more thunder. No more waiting under rooftops, wondering if the other would appear.

Now, they were walking side by side.

And their hands were warm.

And the sky was painting them in light.

---

They reached the front of Yoona’s house just as the last of the sun dipped beneath the horizon. The sky was a deep blend of lavender and dusky orange now, like twilight had spilled across the rooftops in a dreamy haze. The streetlights had blinked to life, casting golden halos over the quiet neighborhood.

Yoona’s gate stood before them, a familiar sight… but tonight, it felt like a threshold to something sacred.

They stopped there, neither quite ready to let go.

Yoona’s hand still nestled in Jinsol’s, the warmth of it seeping deep into Jinsol’s skin like a memory she never wanted to lose.

Yoona looked at the door, then back at Jinsol. Her lips formed a soft pout.

“I don’t want to go in,” she murmured, voice barely louder than the breeze.

Jinsol chuckled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind Yoona’s ear. “You have to. Your mom will worry again.”

Yoona leaned her head against Jinsol’s shoulder with a soft sigh. “Can’t I stay outside with you a bit longer?”

Jinsol smiled, her cheek resting on top of Yoona’s hair. “If I could, I’d sit outside your gate all night. But I don’t think your neighbors would love that.”

Yoona looked up at her, eyes full of playfulness and reluctant affection. “Promise we’ll meet again soon?”

Jinsol held her gaze, her voice low and certain. “We’ll meet every day, if you want.”

“Every day?” Yoona asked, the smile returning to her lips.

“Every single day,” Jinsol replied, her thumb gently brushing Yoona’s fingers. “I’ll come find you. Rain or shine.”

Yoona’s pout slowly faded into a grin, and she nodded.

“Okay,” she whispered.

She finally let go of Jinsol’s hand and stepped toward the gate, her fingers curling around the handle—then paused, turning around one more time.

Jinsol was still standing there, hands now tucked into her pockets, her eyes never leaving Yoona’s.

Then, softly, she called out, “Yoona.”

Yoona tilted her head. “Hmm?”

Jinsol took a small step forward, her heart knocking against her ribs.

“Come here for a second,” she said.

Yoona blinked, a little surprised, but she stepped back toward her with soft, curious eyes. “What is it?”

Jinsol hesitated for only half a breath… then leaned down, her face just inches from Yoona’s.

And she kissed her.

Not long. Not deep.

Just a simple, beautiful kiss—sweet and slow, like a promise whispered under stars. Her lips barely brushed Yoona’s, but it was enough to make Yoona’s breath catch, her heart skip, her toes lift slightly from the ground.

And when they pulled apart, they both giggled—quiet, breathless laughter that bubbled out of them like the joy was too big to keep inside.

Yoona’s face turned rosy, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her skirt.

“You really are full of surprises,” she mumbled, her smile stretching impossibly wide.

Jinsol grinned, eyes glowing with affection.

She took a small step back and gave Yoona a soft wave, voice playful but tender as she said, “Goodbye, princess.”

Yoona bit her lip, trying not to beam too hard.

She opened the gate slowly, stepping backward, eyes still locked on Jinsol.

“Goodbye, Sol,” she replied, heart full, voice light.

And as she disappeared behind the door, Jinsol stood on the quiet sidewalk, hands in her pockets, smiling up at the sky that now held stars.

Jinsol never thought she would find love in the rain. She had always seen storms as inconvenient—drenched clothes, ruined hair, cold shivers, late walks home. Rain, to her, was an interruption. A pause. Something you waited through, teeth chattering, arms crossed under some awning, watching puddles swell on the street and people rush past like fleeting shadows.

But here she is now.

Here she is, standing in her room with the faint scent of rain still clinging to her jacket, her hair damp from the downpour, her cheeks warm not from the weather, but from the memory of a kiss. A real one. With Seol Yoona. Her Yoona.

Her lover.

The word still blooms slowly in her chest, like something foreign and fragile—but beautiful.

She never planned this. Never expected that a stranger would duck under the same bookstore awning that day, complaining about the rain, not even noticing her at first. That the same stranger would laugh like sunshine when their shoulders bumped. That her hoodie, hastily offered, would end up exchanged for weeks of texts, soft phone calls at midnight, and the ache of waiting for summer storms.

Jinsol lays on her bed, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing. She thinks of the way Yoona held her hand earlier—delicately, like she was holding a secret. She remembers Yoona’s voice cracking slightly when she confessed, eyes glassy from tears and thunder. She remembers the way Yoona looked when the sky turned orange—like a dream walking home beside her.

She smiles. Quietly. Wonderingly.

It’s wild how everything changed.

The rain that once made her curse under her breath… had become the thread of fate.

Because in the middle of a storm, when the sky cried and the clouds roared, love came quietly.

In Yoona’s voice.

In Yoona’s eyes.

In Yoona’s hand gently reaching for hers.

Jinsol turns her head toward the window. It’s no longer raining. The moon is soft above the rooftops, veiled by clouds that have finally begun to part.

She never thought she’d fall in love under gray skies.

But now, the rain doesn’t feel like an interruption.

It feels like the beginning.

Because here she is.

Bae Jinsol,

Seol Yoona’s lover.