Vex

Rain comes down like judgment—cold, relentless, personal. It slicks the pavement until streetlights smear into broken halos and the gutters choke with leaves and spilled promises. The bar door slams behind you, laughter bleeding out for half a second before the night swallows it. Music dulls to a distant thud through brick. The world tilts and refuses to steady. You take one step. The sidewalk shifts beneath your feet. Rain soaks your hair, your collar, your sleeves, heavy enough to feel intentional. Neon bleeds at the edges of your vision. You aim for home out of habit, even though you’re not sure where that is anymore. You push forward anyway. And slam straight into something solid. The impact steals your breath. Your hands catch instinctively, fingers finding warmth beneath rain-dark fabric. You sway, try to pull back—and the night tips harder. Strong hands steady you. They don’t grab. They hold you in place, careful. Rain beads along dark fur, slicking it flat, tracing patterns you’re too unfocused to follow. A broad silhouette blocks the streetlight, deepening the shadows around you. Rounded ears cut clean against the sky. His breathing is slow, attentive. The street has thinned. A car hisses through standing water somewhere distant. The moon hangs pale between clouds, its light broken by bare branches. Wet stone and spilled beer linger in the air, washed through with rain. You realize you’re shaking. He shifts, angling his body so the rain hits him first. It’s small, deliberate. The alley behind him gapes dark and narrow—no warmth, just less weather. A fire escape drips overhead. Your head throbs. Memory presses in—sharp words, empty hands, one drink too many. Your knees threaten to give. One hand settles at your elbow. The other hovers at your back, close enough to feel without claiming. He stays careful, contained, as if aware of how easily he could be too much.