The Rain

Seven years after the apocalyptic rain devastated Scandinavia, humanity clings to survival in scattered colonies, while whispers spread of a mutated strain of the virus — one that no longer needs rain to infect. A group of eight strangers is drawn together by a shared mission: to find the last hidden Apollon facility rumored to contain the key to halting the virus once and for all.

Patrick Martin, that asshole. Yeah, it was rich coming from him, but Patrick didn’t give a damn. Sitting around felt like drowning—worse than the rain itself. He hated being stuck babysitting, especially with Daniella.

He glanced at her. Calm as a ghost, working the gear like she wasn’t stuck with him. Like she didn’t care what he thought. Probably liked pushing his buttons.

That pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

Because no one else got to her like he did.

He shifted against the rough bark of a fallen log, trying to shove down the tight knot of frustration twisting in his gut.

Martin’s smug grin still burned in his mind.

“Hold down the fort, yeah? Easy job.”

Easy for Martin to say. Patrick hadn’t argued then. Now, every second of waiting felt like a weight crushing his chest.

He felt useless. Like dead weight. Like the liability everyone thought he was.

And the silence? It was unbearable. Worse than the rain.

His fingers itched for his rifle—not to shoot, just to grip something solid.

He spat on the dirt.

Daniella kept fiddling with the straps, pretending not to notice him watching. Patrick narrowed his eyes, itching to break the quiet with something sharp.

“Hey,” he called, voice rough, leaning forward with a cocky grin he barely felt. “If you’re done playing with the damn gear, might as well get in the bunker. Last time I checked, the sky’s not clearing up.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m fine out here.”

“Sure, because standing in the rain is your idea of a good time?” His sarcasm was thick.

She finally met his gaze, eyes cold. “Better than being stuck with you.”

Patrick snorted. “Yeah, well, lucky me.”

He stood abruptly, pacing a few steps, not leaving.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “for someone who acts like she doesn’t care, you sure spend a lot of time staring.”

Daniella’s lip curled into that half-smile—the one that said I’m not telling you what I’m thinking, asshole.

Patrick felt it—her challenge, her tease—and it threw him off more than he’d like.

Because beneath the biting words and sharp looks, there was something else. Something he wasn’t ready to admit.

Not wanting her to leave.

He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing himself to look anywhere but at her.

“Whatever. Don’t wait up for me,” he muttered.

She laughed—soft, genuine.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

For a moment, the silence between them didn’t feel so empty.

Then Daniella’s gaze flicked beyond him, sharp.

There, pressed tight against a tree trunk, was a child—no older than five, maybe six—eyes wide and terrified.

Patrick’s heart slammed.

Daniella’s voice softened immediately, her usual hard edge melting away.

She crouched low, speaking gently, the warmth in her voice surprising him. “Hey there... it’s okay. You’re safe. Come on out.”

The kid blinked, hesitating.

Patrick’s instincts kicked in—cold, protective. “Daniella. Don’t.”

She glanced at him, eyes full of pleading.

“It’s too risky. Could be infected. Or the rain might start. You don’t know what that kid’s carrying.”

She swallowed, torn.

“But what if they’re just scared?”

Patrick stepped closer, firm. “I’m not letting you get hurt because you want to play hero. Not today.”

Her eyes locked with his, a silent battle of stubbornness and care.

Finally, she nodded, but didn’t move toward the kid.

Patrick felt the tension between them soften for a heartbeat, then hardened again.

Because in this world, love was a dangerous thing. And Patrick was damn good at keeping danger at bay—even if it meant pushing away the one person he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Daniella’s eyes flickered to the kid again, heart tightening. The fear in those small, trembling hands pulled at something deep inside her—a softness she rarely let show.

She glanced back at Patrick, who was already stepping toward her, face hard as stone.

“No,” he said low, voice steady but edged with something sharper, “you don’t.”

But Daniella’s jaw clenched. “I have to,” she said, voice quiet but fierce. “They’re just a kid, Patrick. Scared and alone.”

He frowned, frustration boiling over, but didn’t argue.

Instead, he reached out, grabbed her arm—not roughly, but enough to stop her from moving forward.

“You don’t know what’s out there,” he warned, eyes locking with hers. “The rain, the infection... You get sick, that’s it. I won’t let you die trying to play savior.”

For a moment, their faces were inches apart, the tension thick enough to cut.

Daniella’s breath hitched.

“Maybe I don’t want saving,” she whispered.

Patrick blinked, surprised by the sudden vulnerability.

Then, carefully, she wrenched her arm free—not angrily, but with quiet determination—and took a cautious step toward the child.

Patrick’s eyes darkened.

“Daniella,” he said, voice tight.

She ignored him, voice soft now as she crouched near the tree.

“Hey,” she whispered, hands open, palms up, “I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe here.”

The kid’s eyes locked on hers, still trembling, but the little hands slowly reached out.

Patrick watched, chest tight, that cold edge inside him momentarily cracked.

Because beneath all the anger, he couldn’t deny the way he wanted to protect her—even if she kept pushing him away.

The rain grumbled somewhere in the distance.

And neither of them moved, caught between the storm outside and the one quietly raging between them.

The low rumble of thunder rolled over the trees, sharp and urgent.

Patrick’s eyes snapped to the darkening sky.

The child flinched, clutching the tree tighter.

Without hesitation, Patrick drew his gun, the barrel cold and unforgiving as it leveled at the kid.

“Move,” he barked at Daniella, grabbing her arm and pulling her back just as a heavy drop splattered on the dirt.

“Patrick, no!” Daniella’s voice cracked with desperation as she twisted free, stepping between him and the child. “Don’t—please. Don’t kill them.”

His jaw clenched tight. “You don’t know what that kid could be carrying. Infection spreads like wildfire. If the rain starts, we don’t get a second chance.”

Her eyes burned, pleading. “There has to be another way. You know that.”

He shook his head, the cold mask slipping for a heartbeat to reveal something raw—fear, maybe. For her.

The rain started in earnest, hammering the leaves and ground.

Patrick’s finger tightened on the trigger, but Daniella’s hand shot out, grasping his wrist.

“Not like this,” she whispered fiercely. “Not with me here.”

For a long second, the world held its breath—the thunder, the rain, the standoff between them.

Then, slowly, Patrick lowered the gun, the weight in his chest heavier than the weapon in his hand.

Daniella’s eyes searched his, and despite the storm raging around them, something fragile and unspoken passed between them.

He didn’t say a word, just nodded once.

Together, they moved—the child trembling between them. Patrick and Daniella retreat into the bunker together, with the child in tow. The tension between them stays thick, but there’s that flicker of something softer underneath, especially with Daniella caring for the kid.

The rain hammered down, relentless and unforgiving. Patrick didn’t waste a second. He grabbed Daniella’s arm and pulled her toward the bunker’s heavy metal door.

The child shuffled between them, small and shivering, clutching Daniella’s jacket like it was a lifeline.

Inside, the bunker was dim and cold, but dry.

Daniella immediately crouched beside the kid, pulling out a blanket from her pack and wrapping it gently around the trembling shoulders.

Patrick stood near the entrance, rifle ready, eyes sharp. But every now and then, his gaze flicked to Daniella—softening when she looked up at him, a quiet question in her eyes.

“Why’d you bring them in?” he asked, voice low but not hostile.

Daniella glanced at the child, brushing a stray lock of damp hair from their forehead.

“Because no one deserves to be out there alone,” she said simply.

Patrick snorted, but there was no bite to it. “You’re soft.”

She smirked, meeting his gaze. “Someone has to be.”

For a moment, they just stood there—the storm pounding outside, the child nestled safely between them, and a fragile truce settling in the silence.

Patrick shifted, then finally lowered his rifle.

“Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, voice rough.

Daniella laughed softly, eyes shining with something warmer than survival.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And in the bunker, with the rain beating down like a drum, something quietly began to grow between them—something stronger than the storm.