There was no one else.
They met on a rainy night; her car had broken down on the side of the road, and he had happened to be passing by. The freezing wind chills had shook him as he stepped out of his ancient Ford, checking to leave his lights on. The skies were black, they colors had left the Earth for that brier period of time. He jogged over to her with his leather jacket above his head, eager to escape the harsh torrent of rain.
Her eyes met his in the shadows, and not a word was spoken. Eyes locking, the rain fell around them—but their thoughts of escaping from it had passed them by. There was something in that moment—a flash of life and laughter, an arm around a waist, a vow of laughter—all flashed through in a split second.
The world spun, and everything had changed. Nothing mattered to him but this woman in front of him, and nothing mattered to her but the cloaked face of the man staring at her.
He couldn't tell you what happened that night—to be honest, he doesn't remember. She doesn't remember how she got home, or when her car got fixed, and he never asked for his jacket back (and he doesn't remember giving it to her). He doesn't remember asking her for her number, and she doesn't remember what her roommate said when she walked into their apartment at three in the morning on a Tuesday.
But they remember that look. They remember the memories shared in each other's eyes, they remember the emotions flooding their mind and rushing through their soul, they remember their hearts reaching out and twining together in an unbreakable hold.
He remembers how soft her skin was on his palms, and how it felt as if pure electricity was running up his fingertips when it met her skin. He remembers the slight shiver she gave as he pulled away, and he remembers clearly in his mind the first words her angelic voice ever spoke to him:
"Hi…" her soft voice murmured without breath.
She remembers the rough skin on her arm, and the jolt of electricity when their skin brushed. She remembers the lingering touch on her arm, as if not willing to part for even on second. She remembers perfectly the first words his rough voice had ever spoken to her:
"Hey…" he rasped out, his eyes never leaving hers.
In that moment, there was no rain. There was no bitter cold, or below freezing wind chill, or a broken car. There was no light, and there was no color, and there was no one—no one else but them. There were no obligations or responsibilities; there were no feuding families or terminal illnesses. There was no such thing as a bad day, and there was never such an emotion as depression.
There was only them.
Him and her, and her and him; nothing else mattered. Nurse and heir, rich and poor, boisterous and quiet: none of it mattered. There were no barriers, all their walls had fallen.
And neither of them cared.