The rain came slowly that night, soft and steady like the rhythm of a familiar lullaby. We sat by the window wrapped in a shared blanket, watching the droplets chase each other down the glass. You rested your head on my shoulder, and I traced shapes into your hand with my fingers, creating unspoken poems in your palm.
It wasn't just the sound of the rain that made the night feel sacred it was the way you turned to me with eyes full of stories and began to speak. You told me about your childhood and the way your mother used to paint flowers on rainy days, how you would watch her with fascination, always wondering if love could be as delicate and patient as the strokes of her brush.
I listened, not just with my ears but with every part of me. I could feel your words settling into the corners of our home like dust from stars. You smiled, then kissed me softly, and said, "Even the rain feels like a promise now."
Outside, the storm rolled gently across the sky, but inside, everything was calm. We didn't need fireworks. We had rain and each other and that was more than enough.