A wet shirt in the pouring rain had not been her most theatric idea this week but certainly it ranked on that inexhaustible list of she said, he said, mostly she said. Her shivering frame was pressed up against him, in part because she’d been so very sorry and in other part because she wanted him to be at least soggy to match her soaked. She must have looked silly, all pressed against him with wide eyes and wet sleeked back hair. She must have looked like a puppy left in the rain. And it was pouring: a dramatic display of how she felt from mother nature herself or Kitty’s lack of pre-planning, a simple refusal to spend even a minute of her time on the dreadfully boring weather channel. The first kiss was small, a way to tell him that when the war they’d made of themselves was over she’d still be there no matter the weather, a peck before the apology. “I’m sorry I didn’t empty the dishwasher.”

It was a whisper of sweet nothings mixed with the mundane; a cocktail of sorry’s and my bad’s she’d no doubt chug once she was in a heated building. If he were being honest with herself and him when her arms wrapped around his neck and she locked their lips once more she was only leeching his warmth to undermine the reign of her wet clothes. She’d never meant to tug as hard as she did and it was all she could do to keep him from hitting the floor but turn into a dip, as hard as he was to keep up. 

“They’ll make rom coms about us, Grayson.”