Page 104 of Saddle and Scent
The clouds have rolled in while we weren't paying attention.
Thick, dark, pregnant with the kind of rain that means business.
"Callum," I say, pointing upward.
He follows my gaze just in time for the sky to open up and dump what feels like an entire lake on our heads.
Because of course it does.
Because the universe has a sense of humor.
The rain is immediate and thorough, soaking through my thin t-shirt in seconds and turning Callum's hair into dark, wet spikes. We both start laughing at the same time—the kind of helpless, ridiculous laughter that comes from being completely at the mercy of circumstances beyond your control.
"Well," he says, wiping water from his eyes, "this is a minor setback."
"Minor?" I shriek, though I'm still laughing. "We're about to drown standing up!"
But somehow, I don't care.
The rain is warm and clean, washing away the dust and heat of the day.
And there's something magical about being caught in a downpour with someone who makes you feel alive.
Callum abandons his mechanical troubleshooting and stands up, arms spread wide to embrace the chaos. Water runs down his face and drips from his chin, and he looks like some kind of rain god—wild and beautiful and completely unconcerned with anything as mundane as staying dry.
"Come on," he shouts over the sound of rain hitting pavement. "When's the last time you danced in the rain?"
Never.
Because I'm a practical person who believes in umbrellas and weather forecasts and not getting pneumonia for the sake of romantic gestures.
But looking at him now, soaked and grinning and holding out his hand like he's offering me the world?
Practicality can go fuck itself.
I take his hand and let him pull me into the middle of the empty road. There are no cars, no witnesses, nothing but us and the rain and the kind of moment that exists outside of normal time.
And then we're dancing.
Barefoot on wet asphalt, spinning and laughing and not caring about anything except the way the rain feels on our skin and the way his hands feel in mine.
It's not elegant dancing—more like controlled flailing with musical intent—but it's perfect. He spins me around until I'mdizzy, then pulls me close, and for a moment we're just swaying together while the rain cascades around us like a curtain.
This is what happiness feels like.
This ridiculous, impractical, completely irresponsible happiness that comes from throwing caution to the wind and embracing whatever chaos the universe decides to serve up.
"You're completely insane," I tell him, but I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
"Only for you," he says, and there's something in his voice that makes my breath catch.
Only for you.
Like this version of him—spontaneous and wild and willing to dance in the rain—only exists when I'm around.
Like I bring out parts of him that he keeps hidden from the rest of the world.
The rain shows no signs of stopping, and we're both soaked to the bone. My t-shirt is plastered to my body, and his jeans are so wet they look painted on. We should be miserable, should be focused on finding shelter or fixing the moped or at least getting out of the downpour.
