Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain in Hamburg, Germany was less a downpour and more a persistent, insistent drizzle. It was October 1999, and the winds carried a biting chill that Y/N, an exchange student from sunnier climes, was still trying to acclimate to. Her worn copy of “Einführung in die Raumfahrttechnik” (Introduction to Space Technology) might as well have been a cement brick in her backpack. She navigated the cobblestone streets, her breath pluming in the cold, heading towards the university library. The grey skies, the ancient brick buildings, the hushed reverence of the academic halls – it all felt like a world away from everything she’d ever known.

She’d chosen Hamburg for the challenge, for the reputation of its aerospace engineering program. But some days, like today, the challenge felt less exhilarating and more… relentless. The German language, with its formidable grammar and endless compound words, was a mountain she was perpetually climbing like Sisyphus. The physics of rockets felt like a second, equally steep one.

The library was her sanctuary and, yet, also her tormentor. She found her usual corner, tucked away by a tall, leaded-glass window that offered a view of oak trees, their leaves just beginning to turn orange and gold. Spreading out her textbooks, notebooks, and a thermos of hardly lukewarm coffee, she settled in for what she knew would be hours of intense, and often frustrating, studying.

It was in this quiet, studious bubble that she first noticed him. He wasn't overtly striking in the way some men were, but there was an intensity about him. He sat a few tables away, hunched over his own formidable stack of books – "Aerodynamics," "Aviation," "Aviation Engineering" – all in German... of course. His lighter hair and his well-defined jawline made him stand out, but only slightly. He wore a simple dark sweater, practical for the chill, and had a habit of running a hand through his hair when he was deep in thought, a gesture that for some reason, Y/N found endearing. She'd seen him around campus before; he always looked… focused. Utterly, completely focused, as if the world outside the pages ceased to exist.

Y/N was usually immune to such distractions during her study sessions, but found her gaze drifting towards him more often than she liked. She’d catch herself, reprimand herself, and force her eyes back to the quadratic equations that swam before her. But then, a soft sigh would escape his lips, or he’d tap his pen rhythmically against a page, and her attention would waver again. She wondered if he was struggling with the same concepts, if he, too, was an aerospace engineering student grappling with the intricacies of lift and drag in a foreign language. Her intuition said yes – those textbooks were unmistakable.

After nearly an hour, a sudden--though quiet-- crack echoed through the hushed library. Y/N jumped, her heart leaping into her throat. She looked up to see him holding a broken pen. It had snapped clean in half, the plastic splintered, leaving an ink stain on his index finger. He let out a frustrated growl, barely audible but full of a palpable annoyance.

Without thinking, she reached into her own pencil case and pulled out a spare pen – a simple, reliable black Bic. She rose from her seat, walked over to his table, and placed it gently next to his broken one.

He looked up, startled. His eyes, a startling shade of greenish-blue, widened slightly behind his glasses, then narrowed in surprise. He had strong, defined eyebrows, and for a moment, he looked almost wary.

"Here," she murmured, her German a little clumsy, "For your… frustrations."

He stared at the pen, then at her. A beat passed, then another. The corners of his lips quirked upward, a slow, hesitant, awkward smile that softened the intensity of his gaze. Despite the cloddishness of the smile, it was genuine.

"Danke," he said with a nod, his voice a low, melo baritone, with an accent she couldn't quite place – definitely not German, not quite English, something else, warm and resonant. "That was… thoughtful. My apologies for the noise. Geometry can be… infuriating." …he said, with a hint of Arab accent she hadn’t expected.

Y/N chuckled. "Tell me about it. It’s the bane of my existence this semester." She gestured vaguely to her own table. "Y/N. Exchange student.. from America."

He extended a hand, surprisingly warm and firm. "Ziad. From Beirut.. Lebanon."

"Lebanon?" she repeated, the name exotic on her tongue. "That's quite a long way from Hamburg."

He nods, agreeing, his smile broadening. "But the engineering program here is excellent. And the… quietness. It helps with focus." He picked up the Bic pen she’d offered. "This is perfect. Much appreciated."

"Anytime. Try not to snap this one too," she teased gently, feeling a lightness she hadn't anticipated.

He laughed, a rich, full sound that was quickly muffled as he remembered they were in a library. "I'll try to restrain my rage... thanks."

She returned to her seat, a faint, warm blush on her cheeks. The interaction had been brief, inconsequential really, but it had broken surely the monotony of her day, and somehow, the equations on her page seemed a little less daunting. She stole another glance at Ziad. He was already writing, the Bic pen moving smoothly across the page, his brow furrowed in concentration once more. But this time, she noticed, the corner of his mouth still held a hint of that earlier smile.

+

Over the next few weeks, these small interactions became a quiet ritual. They started seeing each other in the same corner of the library, often at the same time. A nod, a brief smile, sometimes a quick exchange of words about a particularly challenging problem set or the seemingly perpetual, typical grey Germany weather. Y/N learned that Ziad was, like her, deeply immersed in aerospace engineering. He seemed to possess a natural aptitude for it, a quick grasp of complex concepts, though he worked just as tirelessly and lacked sleep just as she did. He told her that when he was growing up, he wanted to be a pilot; his father said no, as he was afraid Ziad would crash, so Ziad settled with aviation engineering instead. There was a quiet ambition in him, a drive that she recognized in herself.

One blustery afternoon, Y/N was struggling with a particularly convoluted derivation for compressible flow equations. Her textbook was no help, and her notes felt inadequate. She sighed, scrubbing a hand over her face.

"Stuck?" a voice asked softly from beside her.

She looked up to find Ziad standing by her table, holding two steaming mugs. He had shed his usual intense focus, his expression open and friendly.

"Completely," she admitted, gesturing to the 페이지 filled with scribbles and crossed-out calculations. "I think my brain has officially turned to mashed potatoes."

He set a mug down in front of her. It smelled of strong coffee and a hint of cinnamon. "I know the feeling. I just finished a similar battle, myself. Consider this a peace offering from the engineering trenches."

"Thank you," she said, gratefully cupping the warm mug. The heat seeped into her cold fingers. "You're a lifesaver."

He pulled up a chair and sat opposite her, his own mug in hand. "Show me. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes will help. Or at least commiserate."

Y/N, initially hesitant to expose her struggles, found herself explaining the problem. Ziad listened intently, his head tilted, his gaze unwavering. He didn't interrupt, just absorbed her explanation, occasionally nodding.

When she finished, he leaned closer, pointing to a line in her notebook. "Here. You've made a small error in the boundary conditions. If you adjust for the Mach number at this point, the rest should fall into place." He took her pen, and with a confident, fluid hand, he sketched out a correction in the margin of her notebook. His handwriting was a surprisingly elegant cursive, a stark contrast to her own hurried scrawl.

As he explained the correction, his voice was low and clear, his explanation precise. He seemed to genuinely enjoy the intellectual challenge, his eyes alight with understanding. Y/N watched, mesmerized not just by his insight, but by the subtle intensity of his presence. He smelled faintly of fresh air and a clean, almost woody scent.

"Ah," she breathed as the solution clicked into place. "Of course! I kept overcomplicating it."

He smiled. "It happens. Sometimes you just need to step back. Or have someone else point out the obvious."

They spent the next hour talking, not just about thermodynamics, but about their studies, their aspirations, their lives. Ziad told her about Beirut, about the vibrant quiet of his hometown, a stark contrast to Hamburg's loud, bustling charm. He spoke of his family with affection, of his desire to make a mark in the world, to build something lasting. He spoke of airplanes, not just as machines, but as poetry in motion, as symbols of human ingenuity and the boundless pursuit of discovery. His passion was infectious.

Y/N found herself opening up to him about her own dreams, her initial struggles with adapting to Germany, the anxieties and excitements of being so far from home. She found his presence grounding and his understanding comforting. There was an earnest eagerness to him, a sincerity that was disarming. He listened with the same kind of focus he applied to his textbooks, making her feel completely seen and heard like never before.

"So, what is it about flight that captivates you so much?" she asked, leaning back, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease.

He looked out the window, his gaze distant for a moment, tracing the flight of a lone bird against the grey sky. Then, he simply shrugs "It's the ultimate freedom, isn't it? To overcome gravity, to build something that achieves that… that's a privilege. It's about pushing boundaries, I guess. About leaving something behind that truly changes things." His eyes, when they met hers again, held a deep, almost wistful glint.

"I never thought of it that way," she admitted softly. "I always saw it as a challenging problem to solve, a logical puzzle. But you see the poetry in it."

He shrugged slightly, a modest smile playing on his lips. "Perhaps. Or perhaps, the poetry is what drives the problem-solving, hm?"

As the library began to empty for the evening, casting long, dramatic shadows across the shelves, they realized hours had passed. They had solved the compressible flow problem, but they had also forged a connection, a nascent understanding that felt more significant than any equation.

"I should go," Y/N said, gathering her books, a faint reluctance clinging to her. "Thank you for the coffee. And the clarity."

"My pleasure," Ziad replied, rising with her. "Perhaps… we could make this a regular occurrence? The coffee, I mean, not necessarily the despair." He offered a charming, self-deprecating smile.

Y/N's heart fluttered. "I wouldn't say no to that."

They walked out of the library together, the evening air crisp and cold, the streetlights casting a warm glow on the wet cobblestones. The drizzle had stopped, and a sliver of pale moonlight peeked through the clouds.

"Do you live far?" Ziad asked, pulling his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"Not too far. Just off Lange Straße," she replied, naming a street near the old town center.

"Ah, then our paths diverge here," he said, gesturing to a fork in the road. "I am heading towards Schönwalde for my flat."

They paused, a comfortable silence settling between them. Y/N found herself wishing the walk were longer.

"Well," she said, shoving her hands into her own pockets, feeling a sudden shyness. "Goodnight, Ziad."

"Goodnight, Y/N," he responded, his voice soft. He lingered for a moment, his gaze holding hers, a warmth radiating from him that seemed to defy the cold air. Then, with a slight nod, he turned and walked away, disappearing where the glow of the streetlights ended.

Y/N walked home, a lightness in her step despite the weight of her backpack. The cold didn't seem quite so biting, the grey skies not quite so oppressive. The thought of Ziad, the quiet intensity of his gaze, the unexpected kindness of his gesture, the shared passion for flight, settled comfortably in her mind. A new thread had been woven into the fabric of her Greifswald life, an unexpected splash of color in the academic grey. She felt a growing curiosity, an undeniable pull towards this enigmatic young man from Beirut, a feeling that whispered of possibilities she hadn’t even dared to imagine before.

Chapter Text

The next time they met was in the university Mensa, the bustling student cafeteria. Y/N was queuing for the notoriously bland potato soup when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

"Looks like we're both brave enough for the Tuesday special," Ziad teased, a playful glint in his eyes. He held a tray with his own portion, a piece of Brot and some salad.

"Only because I'm too hungry to be discerning," she admitted, laughing. "You always seem to pick the healthier options."

"I try," he said with a wink. "One must maintain a certain level of brain fuel for complex geometry."

They found an empty table in a relatively quiet corner. The din of student chatter and clattering trays was a constant back noise, but as they talked, it faded into a distant hum. Their conversation flowed easily, jumping from their shared classes to the quirks of German university life, to their favorite music. Ziad, she discovered, had a surprisingly electric taste, from classical Arabic music to modern rock. He even mentioned enjoying some European pop, much to Y/N's amusement.

"You really don't seem like the type to listen to pop," she teased, stirring her soup.

He feigned offense, placing a hand over his heart. "And what 'type' would that be, Y/N? A serious, brooding engineer incapable of appreciating a catchy melody?"

"Well, you definitely have the 'serious' down when you're in the library," she conceded, a smile playing on her lips. "But I'm learning you have many layers."

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his gaze direct and engaging. "And you, Y/N? What hidden layers do you have underneath that diligent facade?"

She felt a blush creep up her neck. His directness was both charming and a little unnerving. "Oh, I'm probably much more boring than you actually think. Mostly just… studies and trying to survive the German winter."

"I doubt that," he said, his voice soft. "There's a spark in your eyes. A hunger for knowledge, sure, but I see something else. A curiosity. A sense of adventure... to come all this way for something you believe in."

His words made her feel seen in a way that few people ever had. It was a profound compliment, spoken with such sincerity that it disarmed her completely.

"You're very observant," she managed, looking down at her soup, suddenly shy.

"It comes with the territory," he joked, but his eyes still held that thoughtful, intense quality. "You have to pay attention to all the variables."

They talked for over an hour, long after their food was finished. He told her about a trip he'd taken to Afghanistan that summer. He spoke of his love for travel, for experiencing different cultures, for understanding the world beyond his immediate surroundings. There was a restless energy beneath his calm demeanor, a quiet longing for exploration.

"I want to see everything," he confessed, pushing the last crumb of bread around on his plate. "To learn, to experience. To feel like I'm part of something bigger."

"Sounds like you're not meant for a quiet life in Hamburg forever," Y/N mused, thinking of her own yearning for new horizons.

He met her gaze, a fleeting, almost melancholic expression crossing his face. "Perhaps not. Perhaps none of us are." He quickly shook off the mood. "But for now, Hamburg serves its purpose. It's a stepping stone."

As they were leaving, he turned to her, a hopeful look in his eyes. "Since we’ve established we clearly... uh.. work with each other… would you be interested in, perhaps, getting coffee outside of the library? Or maybe… a real German dinner? I know a place that makes excellent Königsberger Klopse, if you're adventurous."

Her smile returned, genuine and bright. "I'd love that. Königsberger Klopse sounds… intriguing, and yet delicious."

"Good," he said, and the relief in his voice was palpable. "How about Friday evening? Around seven?"

"Friday at seven it is," she confirmed, a thrill running through her.

The date was everything and nothing she expected. Ziad was a perfect gentleman, attentive and engaging. He chose a cozy, traditional German restaurant with dark wood and checkered tablecloths, the kind of place that felt steeped in history... in the good way (thanks a lot, Germany.) He ordered for them both, confidently navigating the German menu, and helped her understand the subtleties of the regional cuisine.

They talked about everything and nothing. They discussed their favorite books, their childhoods, their dreams for the future. He spoke of his family—his parents. She spoke of her two younger brothers, her sister, explaining some of the culture of the United States. He shared anecdotes about his life growing up in Lebanon, sometimes with a self-deprecating humor that made him even more appealing. Y/N found herself captivated by his stories, by the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of home, or of his passion for engineering.

He asked her probing questions, too, not in an intrusive way, but with a genuine desire to understand her. He remembered details she’d mentioned casually in previous conversations, making her feel truly listened to. He was charming, insightful, and possessed a quiet confidence that was incredibly attractive.

"It feels strange," Y/N said at one point, swirling the last of her Riesling in her glass. "To be so far from everything familiar, yet to feel… so at home, somehow. Like I'm exactly where I'm meant to be, even if it's utterly terrifying."

Ziad looked at her across the table, his expression soft. "That's the beauty of it, isn't it? The challenge. To find yourself in a place you never imagined." His gaze lingered on hers, and the unspoken sentiment hung in the air between them.

She felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She liked the way he looked at her – with an intensity that made her feel special, unique. She liked the way his hand occasionally gestured when he spoke, the long, elegant fingers that could so deftly sketch complex equations. She liked his quiet laugh, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners.

After dinner, they walked through the old town, the lamplit streets glistening from a recent rain. The air was cool and fresh, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and ancient stone. They talked about the beauty of Greifswald, its quiet charm, its history.

"It's a beautiful place, for all its quiet," Ziad observed, pulling his jacket tighter against the evening chill. "Sometimes I miss the energy of a big city, but then I see the sea, or these quiet streets, and I remember why I chose this path."

"You chose it well," Y/N replied, feeling a sense of peace settle over her, a contentment she hadn't realized she was missing until now.

As they reached the square near Y/N's apartment, they stopped. The towering brick silhouette of St. Nikolai's Cathedral loomed against the night sky. The air crackled with unspoken words, with the weight of burgeoning feelings.

"Thank you, Ziad," Y/N said, looking up at him. "Tonight was… wonderful. The Königsberger Klopse were an experience." She laughed softly.

He smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes. "My pleasure, Y/N. Truly. I enjoyed your company... very much." He paused, then took a small step closer. "I… I really like talking to you."

"Me too," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. Her heart was thrumming a slow, steady rhythm against her ribs.

He reached out, his hand gently finding hers, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The touch sent a shiver through her, a warmth spreading through her veins. His eyes held hers, a silent question in their depths. There was an unspoken understanding, a shared current that had been building between them since that first broken pen.

"I have to go back to Lebanon next week," he said, his voice a little lower now, almost regretful. "But I'll be back in a few weeks for my exams. And... I'd like to see you again when I'm here."

"I'd like that very much, Ziad," she said, her voice a little breathy.

He squeezed her hand gently. For a moment, she thought he might lean in, might bridge the small distance between them. The air was thick with anticipation. But then, he slowly released her hand, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he said, his voice a little gruffer this time.

"Goodnight, Ziad," she replied, her gaze fixed on his.

He turned and walked away, just as he had from the library, but this time the departure felt different, heavier with implication. Y/N watched him go, a mix of elation and longing swirling within her. The evening had cemented something, a connection she hadn't realized she craved. She knew, with a certainty that hummed through her veins, that this was just the beginning.

Chapter Text

The air in Hamburg, even in late spring, still carried the bite of the North Sea, a persistent chill that seemed to seep into the very bones. Y/N had spent weeks tracing the frost patterns on her dorm window, memorizing the angles of the skeletal trees, and the rhythmic hush of the rain against the glass. Her textbooks, filled with impenetrable theorems and elegant equations, had been her constant companions. But the quiet loneliness of it all had begun to gnaw at her, a more insidious cold than the German winter.

Then Ziad had returned.

She hadn’t expected it so soon, or so… differently. The Ziad who had walked her home that night, his hand lingering on hers, his voice soft with confession, was a different man from the one who now strode into their usual dimly lit café on the Reeperbahn. He was still magnetic, yes, but the quiet restlessness had intensified, hardening into something sharp and urgent. His eyes, once full of contemplative curiosity, now held a fierce, almost feverish gleam. He no longer spoke of the sea with wistful longing, but with a disdain that was unnerving.

"Thought you were in Lebanon," Y/N said, her voice a little breathless as he slid into the seat opposite her, not bothering with pleasantries. He was already nursing a dark, almost black coffee, his knuckles white where he gripped the mug.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "Plans change. The world changes. You learn that quickly enough." He waved a dismissive hand, his gaze sweeping over the café with a restless dissatisfaction. "This is a better place to be right now. Hamburg. It has a pulse, even if it's buried under layers of complacency."

Y/N blinked, taken aback by his intensity. The gentle conversations about flight, the shared dreams whispered under the German stars, seemed to belong to a different lifetime. "Pulse? It feels… quiet to me."

"Quiet means people are sleeping," Ziad said, his eyes meeting hers, and for a fleeting moment, Y/N saw the spark she remembered, but it was different now, harder, like flint striking steel. "And people who sleep are easily conquered."

Before Y/N could even begin to process that statement, the door to the café creaked open, and three figures entered, casting long shadows into the room. They moved with a shared, almost synchronized purpose, their presence immediately altering the atmosphere. Ziad’s gaze flickered towards them, a subtle shift, a tightening around his jaw.

The first man, lean and sharply dressed, though his eyes were vacant, like polished stones that reflected nothing, approached their table. He had a way of moving that suggested a profound stillness, a contained energy that felt more unsettling than any outward display.

"Ziad," the man said, his voice a low, monotone drone. No warmth, no curiosity. Just acknowledgment.

"Atta," Ziad replied, a flicker of something that might have been respect, or perhaps just recognition, in his tone. "This is Y/N. She's studying here. Y/N, this is Mohamed Atta."

Y/N offered a hesitant nod. Atta’s gaze swept over her, devoid of any genuine interest, then returned to Ziad.

"The meeting is set for nine," Atta stated, not as a question, but as a fact. "Ramzi is already setting up."

"Excellent," Ziad said, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes.

As Atta moved away, another man joined them. He was broader than Atta, with a restless energy that seemed barely contained by his frame. His eyes darted around the room, his smile, when it came, was quick and mirthless, a flash of teeth that hinted at something sharp beneath.

"Ziad, my friend," he greeted, clapping Ziad on the shoulder with a force that made Y/N wince. "This is the one you told us about?" His gaze landed on Y/N, assessing, almost predatory.

"Marwan... Al Shehhi," Ziad introduced, his tone flat. "Y/N. Marwan is… enthusiastic."

Marwan chuckled, a guttural sound. "Enthusiastic about the inevitable. It's a necessary virtue." He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath smelling faintly of cigarettes and something metallic. "You should be excited, Y/N. We're on the cusp of something truly… transformative."

Y/N found herself shrinking back slightly in her seat. This was not the Ziad she had come to know. These men… they radiated a sense of purpose, yes, but it was a dark, suffocating purpose that had nothing to do with the sky, or the stars, or the quiet dignity of a life well-lived.

Finally, a third man detached himself from a shadowed corner table. He was older, perhaps, with a calm demeanor that was more chilling than any overt aggression. His movements were deliberate, his gaze steady, and Y/N felt an immediate sense of unease, as if she were being expertly dissected by his quiet scrutiny. He sat down beside Ziad, his presence filling the small space with an almost palpable intensity.

"Ziad has spoken well of you," the man said, his voice smooth, cultured, and utterly without warmth. He offered Y/N a smile that didn't extend to his eyes. "I am Ramzi bin al-Shibh. It is always good to meet those who understand the importance of… decisive action."

The air in the café seemed to grow heavier, thicker with unspoken agendas. Ziad, once the quiet dreamer, was now the center of this intense, unsettling circle, his gaze shifting between his companions, his own restless energy now amplified by theirs. He still met Y/N's eyes occasionally, but the connection felt frayed, distorted.

"We were just discussing our next steps," Ziad said, his voice now devoid of its former poetic cadence, replaced by a clipped, businesslike tone. "The logistics are becoming clearer."

"The spirit is ready," Atta added, his voice a low hum. "The timing must be perfect."

Marwan nodded vigorously, leaning forward. "And the impact. It must be undeniable. A shockwave that awakens the world."

Y/N felt a knot tightening in her stomach. She looked at Ziad, searching for any trace of the man who had shared his dreams with her, the man who had held her hand. She found only a hardened resolve, a distant fire in his eyes that was terrifyingly alien.

"What… what kind of 'decisive action' are we talking about?" Y/N managed to ask, her voice trembling slightly. She felt like an intruder, a witness to something she wasn't meant to see, a secret whispered in a language she was only beginning to comprehend.

Ziad turned to her fully then, his gaze intense. "It's about changing the course of history, Y/N. About making a statement so profound, so absolute, that it can never be ignored." He paused, and the silence stretched, filled only by the clatter of dishes from the bar and the low murmur of the other patrons, blissfully unaware. "Sometimes," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, laced with a strange, chilling conviction, "to truly live, you have to be willing to embrace the finality of everything."

He didn't mention Lebanon. He didn't mention the exams. His world, and consequently, Y/N's brief, hopeful world with him, had taken a sharp, irreversible turn. The quiet streets of Hamburg, the scent of rain, the shared warmth of a café table – it all felt like a fragile illusion, a temporary respite before the storm... at least.. that's all Y/N thought it was.

Chapter Text

The rain had been falling since morning. Not hard — not angry — just steady. A slow kind of rain that made the city blur at the edges, that turned everything soft and reflective. The sky was the color of wet concrete; the air, thick with the scent of it – an earthy, mineral tang that seeped through window cracks and clung to damp stone. It was the sort of day that made people walk slower, talk quieter, their shoulders hunched instinctively against the pervasive dampness. The sort that felt like it might never end, stretching out into an endless, grey continuum.

By evening, the cobblestones outside Y/N’s dorm shone like black glass, slick with accumulated water. The streetlamps, usually harsh, shimmered in their reflection, their halos bending and breaking with every ripple of water, every lazy drop from a saturated awning. Somewhere in the distance, a car splashed through a puddle, the sound a brief, loud punctuation mark in the ceaseless drumming of the rain. Somewhere closer, a window shut with a muted thud, a quiet declaration against the persistent chill.

Inside, time felt syrup-slow, thick and resistant to movement. Y/N sat at her desk, staring at the open notebook in front of her. Half-finished equations sprawled across the page, a chaotic landscape of Greek letters and forgotten variables, blurred slightly from where she’d rested her hand too long, the warmth of her palm leaving a faint, smudged shadow. She tapped the end of her pen against her thumb, a quiet, restless rhythm, her eyes unfocused, her mind drifting between the persistent, hypnotic whisper of the rain against the windowpane, the old radiator’s asthmatic groan, and the faint, melancholic music bleeding through the thin wall from her neighbor’s room.

The song was old — crackling jazz, probably something from the 40s or 50s, a melody woven with brass and a mournful saxophone. She didn’t know the name, only the mood: something wistful, belonging to another time, full of smoky rooms and hushed conversations, of longing and quiet resignation. It wasn’t sad, not exactly, but it hummed with an elegant ache, a certain understanding of the human condition.

It fit. It fit her mood, her half-formed thoughts, the way the world outside felt muted and distant. It fit the peculiar kind of loneliness that sometimes settled in these old dorm rooms, even surrounded by hundreds of other students. It wasn't an oppressive loneliness, but a quiet, observational one, like she was watching her own life unfold from a slight remove. She sighed, a small, soundless exhalation that felt heavy in her chest, and pushed her chair back. Her knees brushed the underside of the desk, a dull, scraping sound that disappeared almost instantly into the ambient rhythm of rain and music.

Standing, she crossed the worn carpet to the window, the floorboards creaking softly under her weight. She pressed her palm against the cold glass, feeling the slight vibration of the rain. Drops slid down like slow fireworks, tiny rivulets racing each other toward the sill, blurring the already indistinct city outside. Her reflection blinked back at her — soft, tired, haloed by the warm, amber glow of the fairy lights she’d strung around her bookcase. Her hair looked darker in the dim light, her eyes a shade she couldn’t quite place, holding unspoken questions.

It was one of those nights when the world felt too big and too small all at once. Too big in its vast indifference, its endless, rainy expanse; too small in her confined space, her narrowed focus. When everything was quiet, but the quiet didn’t feel restful — just loud in a different way, amplifying the hum of her own thoughts, the pulse of her own heartbeat, the low thrum of the building around her. It was the kind of night that made you crave something solid, something real, to anchor you.

Then, the knock.

Three short raps, just enough to startle her. Her breath hitched. She froze, her hand still pressed against the glass, the cold seeping into her skin. The sound wasn’t harsh, but it broke the steady, almost meditative rhythm of the evening like a skipped heartbeat, a sudden, unexpected flaw in the quiet tapestry. Who would be knocking? Most people texted. Another pause, long enough for her to feel the rising confusion, then another knock — softer this time, more hesitant, an almost apologetic tap.

She took a breath, letting it out slowly, and pushed away from the window, her heart giving a little lurch. When she opened the door, a faint squeak accompanying the movement, Ziad stood there.

His hood was pulled up, dark hair curling damply against his forehead, escaped tendrils plastered to his skin. Water clung to the hem of his jacket, forming dark, saturated patches, and dripped onto the worn hallway floor at his feet, leaving tiny, expanding circles. The harsh fluorescent light of the hallway behind him painted his silhouette a stark, almost ethereal gold, but his expression was uncertain — that familiar, endearing mix of apology and hope that meant he hadn’t planned this all the way through, just acted on an impulse. There was a faint redness on his cheeks from the cold, and his eyes, usually so keen, held a softer, guarded glint.

“I come bearing comfort,” he said, raising a plastic grocery bag with an awkward, lopsided smile that softened the apprehension in his gaze. A small ripple of water fell from the bag, hitting the floor with a sound like a tiny bell.

She blinked, her mind still catching up. “Comfort?”

He lifted his other hand — a VHS tape, its corners frayed, the label scrawled in blue pen that had started to fade, the ink bleeding slightly at the edges. Apollo 13.

“Vintage comfort,” he said, his voice a little clearer now, more confident. “For rainy-day existential crises.”

A laugh slipped from her — genuine, unexpected, a surprised burst of sound that felt foreign and welcome in the quiet room. “You brought me a space disaster movie as therapy?”

“Hey,” he said, stepping lightly past her as she moved aside, a small gust of damp, cool air following him. The rain scent was stronger now, mixed with something distinctly his – faint soap, a hint of something earthy. “It’s sentimental disguised as smart. Just like you.” He gave her a quick, knowing glance, a flicker of warmth in his eyes.

She rolled her eyes, but the smile was still playing at the corners of her lips, a stubborn little upward curve. The room, which had felt so vast and empty moments before, seemed suddenly smaller with him in it, but not in a bad way — more like everything had drawn a little closer, condensed into a single, warmer, more intimate point. He set the plastic bag down on her small, cluttered side table: a half loaf of crusty bread, still slightly warm from the bakery, two cans of generic soda, and a thick bar of dark chocolate wrapped in crinkled gold foil.

Her heart did a small, ridiculous thing at the sight, a quiet flutter, like a trapped bird. The simple gesture felt impossibly large, disproportionate to the small items. “You really walked through all that rain for this?” she asked, her voice softer than she intended.

“I needed an excuse,” he said softly, his gaze meeting hers, holding it. The unspoken hung heavy in the air, a delicate, acknowledged truth.

They didn’t talk about what he was escaping — or who. His family situation was a complicated knot she knew only fragments of, hints of pressure and expectation that sometimes left him looking older than his years. Her own anxieties, her own vague dissatisfactions with the path she was on, were equally unsaid, equally understood. The silence between them already knew. It understood the unspoken language of shared refuge, the solace found in simply being in another’s presence when the world felt too much.

The old VHS player, a relic she’d inherited from an older cousin, whirred audibly when she pushed the tape in, the plastic clicking and clunking with a satisfying mechanical groan. The TV flickered to life, washing the room in flickering blue light, casting dancing shadows on the walls and turning her fairy lights into distant, orange stars. They sat on the floor, legs stretched out, comfortable in their proximity, a thick university-issued blanket pulled between them, its wool coarse but warm.

Outside, the rain, relentless but softened by the glass, drummed lightly against the window, a constant, comforting accompaniment to the beginning of the film.

When the movie started, the sound was fuzzy, distorted by the aged tape. Tom Hanks’ voice crackled, full of earnest American heroism, and the screen hissed faintly, a low white noise that was almost indistinguishable from the rain. Ziad tore the bread into uneven halves, the crust crackling, and handed her a piece, the yeast-and-flour scent momentarily overriding the damp earth smell. The chocolate broke easily with a satisfying snap, leaving small, dark crumbs on the blanket, a sweet, dark promise.

“Do you even like this movie?” she asked, looking at his profile, illuminated by the flickering screen.

He smirked, a small, knowing curve of his lips. “No. I just wanted to see if you’d talk through it.”

She laughed, nudging his knee lightly with her own. “That’s manipulative.”

“Effective, though,” he countered, his eyes still on the screen, but a warmth in his voice betraying his amusement.

His tone was light, but underneath it sat something quieter, something she knew well. She felt it even when he didn’t say it out loud — that familiar stillness he carried, like he was always half a step away from somewhere else, a quiet reservoir of unspoken history. It was a stillness she recognized, a kindred spirit to her own contemplative melancholy.

The movie scenes unfolded: mission control, the rocket launch, the vast, echoing blackness of space. She found herself leaning closer, drawn into the story, but also drawn to the warmth next to her. The blanket shifted with her movement. A faint static hummed between them, catching in her hair, pulling it slightly towards him. He reached out instinctively, his fingers light and hesitant, to smooth it down, his fingertips brushing her temple, a brief, electrifying touch. The contact was small, accidental — but her breath caught anyway, a tiny, involuntary gasp. The air around them felt charged, a subtle current.

“You’re warm,” she murmured, the words barely a whisper.

“Because I walked through the rain,” he said, his voice low, a soft rumble against the background noise. Then, softer still: “You’re not.”

He adjusted the blanket, pulling it around both of them more closely, a deliberate act of comfort. The scent of soap and rain that clung to him mixed now with the fainter, sweeter scent of her cinnamon tea, which she’d left on her desk but still lingered in the air around her. The radiator groaned once, a final, weary sigh, and then fell quiet, as if giving way to their shared stillness.

For a long time, they didn’t speak, the movie filling the room with its soft urgency — astronauts breathing too hard, the crackle of static through radios, the flicker of failure and hope, the desperate ingenuity of people trying to find their way home from an impossible distance. It was the perfect backdrop for their own quiet dramas.

Then, out of nowhere, she said, her head tilted against the rough wool of the blanket, “Do you miss home?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen, gazing at the distant stars, the blue light reflecting off them like glass, making them seem impossibly deep. “Sometimes,” he said eventually, his voice carefully neutral. “But mostly I miss the version of it that doesn’t exist anymore. The one in my head.” He paused, then added, “It’s like trying to find a place that only exists in an old photograph.”

She nodded against his shoulder, a silent understanding passing between them. The slight abrasiveness of the blanket against her cheek was comforting. “Yeah. I get that.” She did. Her own ‘home’ was a collection of fragmented memories, a place that had shifted and changed, leaving her with a sense of gentle displacement.

He turned slightly toward her, the movement subtle, almost imperceptible. “You make here feel less far.”

The words hit softly, like the rain outside, but they stayed — hanging between them, glowing faintly like the distant streetlights, resonating in the charged quiet. It wasn't a compliment, not really. It was a confession, a statement of profound, unexpected relief.

She didn’t reply. Didn’t need to. There was nothing to add, nothing to explain. She just stayed there, leaning into his presence, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing and the rain’s endless, patient percussion. In his quiet admission, she felt her own quiet anxieties recede, replaced by a sense of being understood, of being seen.

When the credits finally rolled, a grainy, grey cascade of names and roles, the room was silver with the TV light, casting them in monochrome. Neither of them moved, content in the lingering silence, the echoes of the space mission still in the air. The faint hum from the TV was a new kind of quiet.

He shifted first, his arm slipping around her shoulders, tentative but sure, a weight that was both warm and grounding. The gesture didn’t ask anything — it was just there, like gravity, like the steady beat of the rain, a natural and inevitable conclusion to the evening’s trajectory.

“The static’s back,” she whispered, her voice soft against his shirt, the blanket crackling faintly with their slight movement. “Like the universe keeps trying to remind us it’s there.”

“Maybe it’s saying don’t stay still,” he murmured, his breath warm against her hair.

“Too bad,” she said, her eyes closing, a comfortable sigh escaping her. “I like it here.” It wasn’t just the physical spot; it was the here of this moment, this shared, quiet space.

They fell into conversation again, soft and unhurried, picking up threads from earlier, weaving new ones. They talked about bad dorm food and the absurdity of cafeteria mystery meat, about half-remembered dreams that dissolved with the morning light, about the time he got hopelessly lost on campus during a thunderstorm, ending up soaked and laughing. The kind of talk that didn’t go anywhere, didn’t have to; it just was, a gentle current carrying them through the slow-moving hours.

At some point, her head found his shoulder, settling naturally into the curve of it. His hand, after a moment of thoughtful hesitation, found her arm, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles on her sleeve. Outside, the rain softened into a mere drizzle, a lighter, more ethereal sound, but the world still sounded wet — alive in a way only cities could be after hours of weather, shimmering and vibrant.

The chocolate was long gone, a few crumbs the only evidence. The bread, too, devoured. One of the sodas sat half-empty, a forgotten monument. The radiator hummed again, a brief, wheezing note, then stilled, as if listening.

Ziad tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closed, letting out a long breath that seemed to carry the weight of the day, of many days. “You know,” he said, his voice low, a soft rumble in his chest, “I used to think nights like this meant something was missing. An emptiness, a void that should be filled.” He paused, thinking. “Now it just feels like something’s starting.”

Her heart did that small, quiet thing again — the ache that wasn’t quite pain, wasn’t quite comfort, but a sweet, strange blend of both. It was the ache of vulnerability, of hope, of letting something new take root.

“Maybe it is,” she said, her voice barely audible, a fragile whisper in the quiet room.

He smiled without opening his eyes, a genuine, easy smile that transformed his face. “You think so?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, admitting the uncertainty, but leaning into the possibility. “But if it isn’t, let’s pretend it is.” The words were a quiet invitation, a shared pact against the vast, blurring world outside.

For a long moment, neither of them said anything. The world outside, usually so loud and insistent, held its breath, listening.

Then the rain began again — faint, rhythmic, patient. A steady promise.

He looked at her then — really looked — and for once, didn’t seem afraid of what it might mean. His eyes, dark and deep, held hers, mirroring the blue flicker of the dying TV screen.

“Y/N,” he said, her name soft enough to almost be part of the rain, a gentle cadence that settled into the quiet hum of the night.

She met his eyes, held his gaze, a silent conversation passing between them that transcended words, transcended the rain, transcended the old movie.

And there, in the blue flicker of a dying VHS tape and the hum of a tired radiator, something wordless settled between them. Not love, not yet — but the small, steady beginning of it. The fragile, nascent hope that blossomed in shared silence and soft comfort.

The kind that grows slowly. The kind that sounds like rain when you breathe.

Chapter Text

Rain had been coming down for hours, steady as static, blurring the city into streaks of gray and gold. Inside Ziad’s apartment the air felt tight, close, like it had forgotten how to move.

He’d been pacing for nearly half an hour. A pencil in his hand, restless fingers tapping it against his palm, the rhythm quick and uneven. Y/N sat at the small table beside the window, knees drawn up, watching him wear a path across the rug. Every few passes their eyes met; every time they looked away too quickly.

“You’re going to burn a hole in the floor,” she said finally.

He stopped, turned halfway toward her, one eyebrow lifted. “Better than burning a hole in my head.”

“Depends on the size of the hole,” she muttered, hiding a smile behind her sleeve.

That broke the tension just enough for him to laugh. The sound came rough, unpracticed. He set the pencil down, rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, and the silence that followed was thicker than before.

A car horn bled through the walls. The lamp buzzed overhead. Somewhere below, a cat yowled at nothing.

“Do you ever think,” she began, “that maybe you make things harder than they have to be?”

Ziad’s mouth twitched. “Constantly.”

“Then stop.”

“I tried. Didn’t take.”

“Try again.”

He leaned against the edge of the desk, half in shadow, eyes flickering toward her. “You make it sound easy.”

“I didn’t say it was easy.”

He looked at her then, really looked. The rainlight caught in his eyes, turning them darker, and for a moment neither of them moved. The distance between them measured maybe three feet—small enough to erase in one step, large enough to feel like a canyon.

“Y/N,” he said, voice low.

She lifted her chin. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

He smiled at that, crooked and helpless. “Yeah.”

The word hung there like a fuse catching fire.

She stood. Her chair scraped softly against the floor. Each movement felt slow and deliberate, but her pulse was racing. She crossed the space between them until she could feel the heat of him, smell the faint trace of smoke on his shirt.

“Tell me what you were going to say,” she murmured.

He shook his head. “You already know.”

“Say it anyway.”

The rain outside thickened, drumming on the glass like a second heartbeat. He reached up then, almost without thinking, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The touch was light, careful, but it sent a shiver through her just the same.

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. The edge of the desk pressed against her hip; she could feel the warmth of his breath.

For a heartbeat everything froze—the storm, the air, even thought itself.

Then the world lurched forward.

He caught her hand, just for a moment, and the contact felt like static: sharp, bright, alive. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said softly.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m something worth getting lost for.”

“Maybe you are.”

The words landed somewhere deep, and he flinched as if they hurt.

“I’m not,” he said.

“Let me decide that.”

The sound of thunder rolled through the building, and in that moment, the light flickered out. The room sank into the dark, lit only by the fractured glow of the city outside.

Ziad’s outline blurred; all that remained was closeness—the shared rhythm of breath, the smell of rain, the quiet electric hum between them.

He moved first, then stopped halfway, a motion cut short. She could see the hesitation in the slope of his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed at his side like he didn’t know where to put them.

“You always stop,” she whispered.

“I’m trying not to make mistakes.”

“Maybe this one’s worth it.”

That undid him. He leaned forward until their foreheads touched, a small collision that felt louder than the storm.

Time slid sideways. The lamp flickered back on for half a second and caught the shimmer in her eyes, the twitch of a smile, the steady tremor in his breath.

He pulled away, only just, and let out a quiet laugh. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

She shrugged. “So are you.”

They stayed like that—half-apart, half-entangled—for a long while, caught in the narrow space between restraint and surrender. Neither moved to close the distance again; neither stepped away. The rain slowed. The city dimmed.

When dawn finally began to seep through the window, Ziad spoke first.

“You should sleep,” he said.

“So should you.”

“I’ll try.”

He reached out, brushed her knuckles with his thumb, and then let go.

As she turned to leave, the room seemed to exhale—everything softening, cooling, returning to ordinary life. But underneath the quiet lay something new: a charge waiting to ignite.

Outside, the storm had passed, but the air still smelled like lightning.