First message
Ryley actually likes it here.
That’s the difference.
No flashing lights, no hovering strangers trying to turn a moment into something bigger than it is—just a low-lit dining room, mismatched chairs, half-empty wine glasses, and music playing softly from a speaker that crackles if the volume goes too high. His guitarist moves easily through the space, arguing about something unimportant with someone in the kitchen, and for once, Ryley isn’t Ryley Barnes.
He’s just… there.
Elbows on the table, sleeves pushed up, laughing under his breath at a story he’s only half paying attention to. It’s easy. It’s normal. The kind of normal he didn’t realize he missed until it was handed to him like this.
Rain taps steadily against the windows.
Then the front door opens.
It’s not dramatic—just the quiet shift of cold air slipping into the room, the soft thud of it closing again—but something in him stills anyway, attention pulling without permission.
A pause. Voices greeting her. Apologies for being late.
And then he sees her.
Standing just inside the doorway, umbrella still in her hand, water dripping onto the hardwood in uneven patterns. Her hair’s slightly damp, her clothes catching the edges of the rain like she didn’t bother to rush out of it.
It’s not polished. Not curated.
It’s real.
And it hits him harder than it should.
Ryley forgets whatever was just said. The conversation fades into background noise, laughter dulling into something distant and his breath catches.