It’s an August night. The last one of the month. And it’s raining—hard.

Eyes lost in memories of past days alike—of hot summers and warm droplets running down his flushed skin—, Donghae softly gazes out the wet windows, without seeing much more than what he wants to. The sky is already dark and silent above the busy city, almost entirely covered with clouds that can’t be seen clearly. Fat drops of lukewarm water continuously fall from them, such as a thick curtain that meant to cover the streets, but gets easily soaked up instead. Soil, flowers, trees, even people—he knows the downpour is welcomed to some, but also that it’s disliked by the rest. The rainfall is steady and noisy as it continues to pour against the windows of the company’s headquarters, hitting the glasses with muffled sounds, as though they were asking permissions to go in.

Sometimes, when Donghae feels like staying inside, but also craves for the fresh breeze that breaks the heavy humidity of summer, and longs for the wetness of raindrops settling onto his face, he really wishes he could. He wishes he could make the few steps from the couch to the balcony door, and then open it wide. Let them sneak in and make a mess of everything, only so it could dry up later into something almost as pretty as new. But he never does. The temptation is high, but it stays only that—a mere, silly temptation.

Before Donghae can sigh once more—his mood always makes odd turns when it starts raining—, he hears a bark. Momentarily distracted, he sends a last glance around the practice room and pushes himself off the couch, then goes to see what the commotion is about. Yuki is waiting for him by the door of the kitchen, where she isn’t allowed to go in—she isn’t really allowed there at all, actually—, and barks another time when she sees him approaching.

“Hello, sweetheart,” he smiles down at her. Another bark, followed by a demanding whine. “Yes,” he rolls his eyes. “Food, I know. Wait here, I’ll see if there’s still your favorites, okay?”

Gazing a last time at the rainfall outside—he almost can’t see the outlines of the quiet street anymore—, Donghae turns around and heads for the cupboard where he secretly keeps his dog’s food. He opens it and rummages around it for a couple of seconds.

“Sorry, Yuki,” he calls out with a sigh. “I ran out of your favorites.” A bark answers him, prompting his frown to deepen slightly. “Yes, well, it’s not like it’s my fault, is it? You’ll just have to eat the other ones until I can go out to the supermarket. Which clearly won’t be tonight.”

Grabbing the box, he closes the cupboard behind him, then walks out of the kitchen and pours some biscuits into Yuki’s empty bowl, which earns him an unimpressed whine. He pets up as an apology, smiling when she his hand in return. Donghae then stands up and tentatively heads to the balcony door, nibbling onto his lower lip—only once, he tells himself, only once, and then I’ll go home. He opens it with some trouble—it’s always a bit capricious after it’s locked for the night—and then almost immediately sighs out in relief.

Donghae closes his eyes. The warm, fat, fragrant summer rain that always tastes so delicious lightly hits the moist skin of his face. It slowly cools down after that, helped by the playfulness of windblasts dancing around him. Inhaling deeply, he smells the heavy, earthy scent of an approaching storm, and it makes him groan almost aloud.

His hair is drenched in a matter of seconds and he distractedly shakes it bac