Rain's POV:
I'm running late.
It's 7 a.m., and I'm nowhere near the hospital. Matt is going to absolutely murder me.
I grab my coffee—more like a sugar-loaded coffee milkshake—and sprint toward the ER entrance when my phone rings.
"Where the fuck are you, Rain? I told you to get your ass here ASAP."
"I am getting there! I'm sorry, okay? I'll give you my coffee if you stop yelling," I say, trying to sound cute because fear works only half the time with him.
Matt sighs. "Fine. Just hurry. And yes, I want that coffee."
I rush in, swipe into the General Medicine wing, and spot him looking like a zombie.
"Here," I say, handing over the cup. "Now leave. I'll take it from here. Just give me last night's charts."
"I finished most. Just check the patient in bed 40."
He shoves the file into my hand and drags himself out.
I don't even glance at the chart. I walk straight to bed 40—
—and freeze.
That voice.
Deep. Familiar.
Burned into the part of my brain I've spent six years trying to shut down.
No! No, no, no.
He was supposed to be on another continent.
He was supposed to be gone.
Dr. Salva calls out, "Rain, go. The fellow's waiting."
I force myself forward.
And there he is.
Dane Collins.
Or Danny.
The boy with stupid summer shorts and crooked braces.
My best friend.
My almost-everything—before everything went horribly, irreversibly wrong.
Now he's taller.
Broader.
Stubble on his jaw.
And looking right at me.
I pretend I don't notice. Professional. Collected. Unbothered.
The fellow begins presenting.
"Dane Collins, 24, came in last night with acute chest pain—"
But I can't focus. His presence is loud. Too loud.
When I finally look up, he's already staring.
"Dr. Rain? Are you okay?"
Dr. Salva's voice snaps me back.
"I'm fine. I'll follow up on the patient."
I force a smile, still avoiding Danny entirely.
Dr. Salva hands me the chart, squeezes my hand gently, and walks away.
The second he's out of earshot:
"So," Dane says casually, "how long have you two been together?"
I blink. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs, like he has any right to ask. "You and Dr. Salva. Looked… close."
Unbelievable.
Six years apart and the first thing he does is poke at my life.
"Mr. Collins," I say stiffly, "I'm going to take your ECG now. Tell me about the chest pain."
"Oh, so it's Collins now? Not Danny?" He asks in that familiar provocative tone. "At least look at me."
This is exactly what he does—pretends nothing happened, like we can just walk back into that old version of us.
I hate that I'm reacting. I hate that he knows I'm reacting.
"Dane," I say sharply, "I don't see how my personal life is any of your business. Let's just finish this so you can go your way and I can go mine."
He doesn't speak.
Just watches me, intense, unreadable.
"Your hair's different," he finally says. "Longer. Dyed."
"Well, you look the same," I snap. "Still annoying."
He chuckles—deep and low—and my stomach betrays me by flipping.
"I'm going to be here in London now," he says.
I stiffen.
Of course.
Of course the universe hates me.
A stupid, traitorous part of me sparks with happiness.
The other part wants to throttle it.
"So what, you want a city map?" I say, rolling my eyes.
He laughs under his breath. "Maybe a tourist guide wouldn't hurt."
I slam the chart shut. "Why are you doing this, Dane? Why now? Why any of it?"
He blinks innocently. "Chest pain. Remember? Aren't you the doctor?"
"You know that's not what I mean."
His expression shifts. Softens.
"Rain, I—"
A stretcher thunders past us, nurses shouting, machines beeping. The ER swallows us again.
And just like that, the past I buried has walked right back into my hospital.