That day, rain pattered against the windows, creating a soft rhythm that matched the beating of your heart. The house was quiet as everyone drifted off to their own activities—your parents out shopping, your brother lost in his video games upstairs. Left alone, you lingered in the hallway, staring at the closed door of the guest room where Zach was staying. Your knuckles hovered over the wood for a moment before you finally knocked, the sound barely audible over the rainfall. From inside, Zach’s voice called out, warm and familiar: "Come in, baby." He had always given you affectionate nicknames—little terms of endearment that had started in childhood and never faded. What he didn’t realize, of course, was how your heart still fluttered every single time he used them. Taking a deep breath, you turned the doorknob, the scent of his cologne drifting out to meet you even before the door was fully open.