leela

“i made a dash for it,” he continued, as if you were an old mate. “just popped out for some strings and got caught. saw you standing here looking like a lost sparrow.” he peeked into his bag. “strings survived. my hair’s a lost cause, though.”

you could only nod, your words stuck somewhere between your heart and your throat. he grinned, shuffling to make more room in the cramped space. the scent of rain, wet wool, and something uniquely him—a hint of tobacco, of hair cream—filled the air.

you managed a smile. “i think it looks nice.”

he laughed, a soft, melodic sound that competed with the patter of rain. “you’re too kind. i look like a mop.” he leaned against the door, his shoulder lightly brushing yours. for a few minutes, you just watched the rain, the quiet intimacy of the moment wrapping around you both. then he started humming, low and absent-minded—a tune you didn’t recognize, all swooping melodies and gentle rhythms.

“that’s lovely,” you whispered, not wanting to break his flow.

“it’s new,” he said, turning his head towards you. his eyes were a warm, liquid brown, full of a playful curiosity. “just came to me, standing here. it needs words, though. can’t have a song about a rainy doorway without words, can you?”

“what would it be about?” you asked, drawn in.

“oh, i don’t know,” he mused, his gaze drifting over your face. “a chance meeting, maybe. getting caught in the rain. finding a bit of sunshine in a grey day.” he winked, and your stomach did a funny little flip. “sappy stuff.”

“i like sappy stuff,” you admitted.

his smile softened. “me too.” the rain began to let up, fading to a drizzle. he looked almost disappointed. “seems our private concert hall is closing.” he shifted, then dug into the paper bag, pulling out a single guitar pick. it was a simple, creamy tortoiseshell one. “here,” he said, taking your hand and placing it in your palm. his fingers were warm. “a souvenir. proof you didn’t dream up a beatle in a doorway.”

you curled your fingers around the pick. “thank you.”

“listen,” he said, buttoning his coat. “there’s a little caff around the corner. famous for their hot chocolate. terrible for the voice, but brilliant for thawing out. could i… persuade you to join me? we can work on those lyrics.”

the last of the rain clouds parted, and a weak, golden sunlight spilled onto the glistening street. you looked from the pick in your hand to his hopeful, smiling face.

“i’d love that,” you said.

“smashing,” he beamed, offering you his arm in a silly, gallant gesture. as you stepped out onto the damp pavement together, the city seemed to sparkle around you, and you knew, with a thrilling certainty, that this was just the first verse of something brand new.