They met again the next week. And the week after that.
Not always in the rain.
Sometimes it was at the bookstore, where Daniel would show Jo a new arrival he thought she'd like — a poetry collection with pages that smelled like cedar, or a worn copy of The Little Prince with margin notes from past readers.
Other times, it was at the café, where they'd sit by the window with steaming mugs and talk about everything and nothing — childhood memories, favorite songs, books they couldn't stop thinking about.
Once, they walked through the park under a shared umbrella, watching ducks glide across the pond as autumn leaves swirled around them like whispered secrets.
It wasn't love yet.
But it was something close — something soft and warm and growing.
One afternoon, Jo brought her notebook.
She sat beside Daniel on a bench outside the library, scribbling lines between sips of tea.
"What are you writing?" he asked after a while.
"Something inspired by us," she said without looking up.
He raised an eyebrow. "We're inspiring now?"
"You were the first story I wrote in years," she admitted. "And maybe the one I didn't know I needed."
Daniel smiled gently, but there was something thoughtful behind his eyes.
"I used to think I could only give pieces of myself through those umbrellas," he said after a pause. "Like I could be kind without being seen. Without getting too close."
Jo looked at him then, really looked.
"And now?" she asked quietly.
"Now…" He turned his gaze toward the sky, where clouds drifted slowly above them. "Now I'm not afraid to be seen. Not with you."
She felt something bloom inside her chest — not sudden, not dramatic, but deep and real.
A few days later, Daniel invited Jo to meet his father.
They stood outside a small house with ivy creeping up the walls — quiet, weathered, full of memory.
"My mom loved this place," he said as they climbed the front steps. "She planted every flower in that garden."
Inside, the house smelled like old books and vanilla. His father, Mr. Mercer, greeted them warmly — a tall man with silver hair and a voice like a lighthouse beam, steady and grounding.
Over tea and cinnamon toast, stories flowed easily. About Daniel's mother. About Jo's students. About the way rain made some people feel lonely — and others, strangely hopeful.
Later, when they stepped back outside, the sun was setting.
"That went well," Jo said with a smile.
"She would've liked you," Daniel replied. "She always believed in people who gave things meaning."
Jo nudged him playfully. "You mean like paper cranes and forget-me-nots?"
He laughed. "Exactly like that."
As the weeks passed, Jo found herself writing more.
Not just short reflections or poems tucked into notebooks, but a story — their story.
She titled it:
The Umbrella Exchange
It began with a storm, and ended with two strangers learning how to walk in the same rain.
When she read it aloud to Daniel one evening — curled up on his couch beneath a shared blanket, a fire crackling softly in the hearth — he didn't say much at first.
Then he reached for her hand.
"This is beautiful," he said simply. "Thank you for letting me be part of your words."
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
"Thank you for walking with me," she whispered.
Outside, the rain had started again — gentle, familiar, welcome.
And this time, they didn't need separate umbrellas.
They had each other.