𓈒　 　| ୨ ♡ ୧  ⁀ : **WLW STORY.** ‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿‿ 🩷　𓈒　 　| ୨ ♡ ୧  ⁀ : December nights had their own kind of silence—heavy, muted, almost too still. Except tonight. Tonight the sky seemed intent on drowning the city one drop at a time, slanting hard against the pavement in relentless sheets.

You shivered, hugging your arms around yourself. Jacket forgotten. Umbrella forgotten. Brain cells, apparently, also forgotten.

The streetlights flickered against the slick pavement, stretching your shadow thin and pale. You were halfway through debating whether you could sprint home without dying when a familiar voice cut through the rain.

“Hey!”

You turned. Loveshot leaned out from under the narrow awning of a closed café, one eyebrow raised, arms crossed. Her hair, damp at the ends, clung to her jawline. Even soaked in cold light and rain mist, she managed to look dangerously composed.

“Are you trying to get pneumonia or are you just making some kind of avant-garde fashion statement?”

You blinked. “I— forgot my jacket.”

Loveshot stared. Then she exhaled a long, theatrical sigh that fogged in the air. “You’re unbelievable.”

She stepped forward, boots splashing. Up close, her teasing expression softened into something closer to worry.

“Come here,” she murmured, already shrugging off her jacket. She draped it over your shoulders with a decisive gentleness, fingers brushing your collarbone for the briefest second. The warmth of the fabric sank into your skin, and the scent hit you: cedar, something sweet, something distinctly her.

Her smirk returned. “Can’t have a pretty girl like you freezing to death.”

You tried to act unaffected. You failed.

“Thanks,” you said, trying not to bury your face in the collar.

Loveshot’s eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary—storm-grey in the dim light—before she cleared her throat and turned. “Come on. You live close, right? I’ll walk you.”

You followed.

The city’s noise quieted under the pounding rain. Only your footsteps filled the space between the two of you, and slowly, cautiously, you began to talk.

Loveshot was nothing like her reputation. People whispered that she was intense, cold, hard to read. But here—walking beside you, brushing her shoulder against yours every so often to steer you away from puddles—she was warm, alive, teasing.

“So,” she said after a few minutes, “what’s your excuse for being out here like a stray cat?”

You groaned. “I misjudged the weather. And time. And… everything.”

“Mm-hm.” She nudged you with her elbow. “I’ll mark that as a solid ‘zero’ in decision-making aptitude.”

“You’re mean.”

“I’m accurate,” she said with a grin.

A car passed, sending a ripple of light and water over the pavement. The two of you shifted instinctively closer—not touching, not quite, but close enough that you felt the warmth radiating from her even in the cold.

“You always walk people home in storms?” you asked lightly.

“Just the ones who wander around looking like rain-soaked disasters.”

“So… me.”

“Exactly you.”

Her voice dipped warm. Teasing, yes—but also sincere.

By the time you reached your building, the worst of the rain had eased into a soft drizzle. Loveshot stopped under the small overhang and turned to face you fully. For the first time all night, she looked unsure—like she was weighing something.

Her hand lifted. She brushed a raindrop from your cheek with her thumb. The touch lingered.

“Next time you go out,” she said quietly, “tell me. I don’t mind getting a little wet.”

Your breath caught.

Loveshot seemed to realize what she’d said at the same moment you did. Her ears tinted pink; she looked away, clearing her throat sharply.

“I meant— the rain. Getting wet from the— You know what, never mind.”

You laughed softly. She glared half-heartedly, then pressed her hands into her pockets.

“Keep the jacket,” she said. “It suits you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” She looked directly at you this time, expression open in a way you’d never seen before. “Besides… gives me an excuse to see you again.”

And with that, she stepped backward into the drizzle, gave you one last crooked smile, and disappeared down the street.

---

[ 8:45 AM | Sunday | December 21, 2025 ]

You stood under the overhang long after she was gone, the jacket warm around your shoulders, your heart warmer still.

Loveshot’s jacket sat draped over the back of your desk chair like a quiet accusation.

Every time you walked past it, you caught the faint cedar-sweet scent and felt your stomach flutter. It had only been twenty-four hours since the rainy walk home, yet you’d replayed the moment her thumb brushed your cheek at least a dozen times.

Maybe two dozen.

…Fine, maybe thirty.

The point was: you were thinking about her way too much.

You were halfway through folding laundry that evening—trying desperately to distract yourself—when your phone buzzed.

LOVESHOT: Did you survive today without catastrophic wardrobe failure?

You stared at the screen, biting your lip to keep from smiling too hard.

YOU: Yes. I even remembered my jacket. And no pneumonia.

Three dots blinked. Paused. Stopped. Blinking again.

Like she was typing, deleting, typing again.

LOVESHOT: Good. I’d hate to see my hard work go to waste.

You snorted softly. Hard work? She made carrying you through a storm seem like nothing more than an amusing side quest.

Your phone buzzed again.

LOVESHOT: …You still have my jacket, right?

Your gaze drifted over to it.

YOU: Yeah. I was planning to return it tomorrow.

A longer pause this time. Long enough that you wondered if you’d said something wrong.

Then—

LOVESHOT: No rush. Actually… keep it a little longer. It looks better on you than it ever did on me.

Your cheeks burned.

You set your phone down, pressing your palms against your face. Were you seriously getting flustered by a girl who flirted like breathing?

…Yes. Yes you were.

The phone buzzed again.

LOVESHOT: What are you doing right now?

You glanced at your half-folded pile of clothes.

YOU: Laundry. Why?

LOVESHOT: I’m coming over.

You froze.

YOU: You—you WHAT??

LOVESHOT: Relax. I’m not breaking in through the window.

. . .

Probably.

I just want to make sure you’re actually taking care of yourself.

You opened your mouth, closed it, opened it again. Before you could type a proper response, another message appeared.

LOVESHOT: Put the kettle on. I’ll bring tea.

Your heart thudded.

YOU: You know you don’t have to—

Her reply was instant.

LOVESHOT: I know. But I want to.

You stared down at your phone, warm and stunned. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you wondered if you should be nervous—but instead you felt… excited. Almost giddy.

You tidied the living room at lightning speed, tossing stray clothes into the laundry basket, fixing cushions, turning the lights warm and low. You stood back, looked around, and wondered if it was too obvious that you were making the place look nice for her.

Before you could spiral further, there was a knock.

Your breath hitched.

You opened the door.

Loveshot stood there in a dark hoodie, rain-speckled hair framing her face, a small paper bag of tea canisters in hand. Her eyes swept over you—softly, openly this time.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

“Hi.”

Her gaze flicked to the jacket draped over your chair behind you, then back to you. She smiled—slow, a little crooked, undeniably fond.

“Told you,” she murmured as she stepped inside, “it suits you.”

You let her in, heart hammering, the warmth of the room suddenly nothing compared to the warmth blooming in your chest.

Tonight, you realized, wasn’t going to be simple.

It was going to be the beginning of something.