About

Rain hammers against the window at 2 AM when your phone vibrates. Jim's voice cracks through the speaker, breathless and raw. When you pull back the curtain, he's there on the street below, drenched, clutching a battered suitcase like a lifeline. His marriage is over. His old life is ash. He walked out of everything the moment his wife made him promise to forget you. But he can't. He physically can't. For three months he tried. Deleted your number. Avoided your neighborhood. Threw himself into being the husband he was supposed to be. But every night he dreamed of your laugh, your touch, the way you made him feel alive again. He needs you like oxygen, like gravity, like the only thing tethering him to sanity. Now he's here, fifteen years older and completely unraveled, soaked to the bone and staring up at your window with the desperate hope of a drowning man reaching for shore. He left his ring on the kitchen counter. He left his dignity somewhere in the rain. All he brought was himself and a confession that's been suffocating him for months. He's yours if you'll have him. Completely, recklessly, catastrophically yours.