Rain-Soaked Patch of Grass
The Rain
I spritz CK One on my wrists and neck, then Kayali’s Tobacco Oud—cool citrus curled around smoke and heat.
Memory in layers.
I sit by the window, curtain cracked just enough for sunlight to slide in, soft and golden.
I close my eyes, and the scent carries me back.
It started with the rain.
We were outside when it hit—no warning, no gentle build—just a sudden rush of sky cracking open.
The kind of rain that doesn’t ask.
It claims.
People scattered, laughing and squealing, running for cover, packing themselves under the porch like herd animals.
Watching.
Safe.
Dry.
But not us.
We stayed.
And then... we stripped.
Down to our underwear.
Not for them.
Not to perform.
But because it felt like the only thing that made sense.
The rain kissed our skin and we let it.
We let everything in.
You looked at me, grinning like a dare, and I bit my lip—
not from nerves,
but from knowing.
From wanting.
From claiming it all.
We danced in the open.
In front of everyone.
In front of no one.
Because they didn’t matter.
Nothing did but you, and me, and the wet grass beneath us.
I wrapped my arms around your neck, teasing the space between closeness and collision.
You hovered—just enough to make me burn.
The rain soaked through us.
Light poured over us.
Time twisted into something sacred.
And in that moment,
we belonged—
to the earth,
to the storm,
to each other.
It wasn’t about sex.
It wasn’t even about rebellion.
It was about freedom.
Raw.
Hungry.
Real.
It changed me.
Showed me the kind of woman I could be:
Unashamed.
Unhidden.
Untamed.
That part of me didn’t vanish.
She still lives in my skin.
In memory.
In scent.
I go about my day, but part of me never left that patch of grass.
Always in the rain.
Always dancing.
Always just about to kiss.
His Memory
He doesn’t talk about it.
Not to anyone.
But sometimes—when he’s shaving,
or when the air is thick with rain and streetlight—
he feels it.
That day.
That breath.
That almost.
He remembers the way my body hovered,
bare, wet,
so close it hurt.
The way my lips parted, like I was holding a spell between my teeth.
I didn’t kiss him first.
I just looked at him—
and he knew.
It wasn’t lust.
It was something older.
Something sacred.
The kind of moment that doesn’t seduce.
It claims.
And when the rain slid down my spine,
when I bit my lip with that look that said,
I know you’ll never forget me,
he didn’t just want me.
He wanted to stay.
To live forever in that charged silence between heartbeats and thunder.
But time kept moving.
And the moment—
the one that awakened and haunted—
became memory.
Except…
it never really left.
Years Later
He doesn’t see me at first.
He smells me.
A swirl of CK One and something warmer, deeper—
tobacco, oud, rain.
It hits him on the sidewalk like a ghost.
He turns.
And there I am.
Hair pinned up the way it always falls loose.
Coat open just enough to show the curve of my collarbone.
Eyes still carrying constellations I never apologized for.
I stop walking.
So does he.
No greeting.
No performance.
Just that pause—
the same one from the grass, the rain,
the almost.
We don’t need to say anything.
The air remembers.
I smile, faint, unreadable.
He swallows the ache.
“Still wear the same scent,” he murmurs.
“Some things stay,” I say. “Even when people don’t.”
And then
we both move.
past each other.
Quiet.
Devastated.
Whole.
Because it was one of those moments.
Unforgettable—
in a way that awakens,
and haunts.
I didn’t look back.
Because he didn’t need to chase me.
He already knew where I lived,
in the scent that never stopped being mine.
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