The rain returned like a secret—it didn't pour, it whispered. The kind of drizzle that slid down skin like fingers, soft and persistent, hard to ignore.
Aaliyah stood under the cracked bus shelter after class, her breath fogging the glass as the world turned to grey. She had lost track of time lately—of which thoughts belonged to her, and which had been planted by voices that spoke too close, too low, too male.
Silas hadn't tried to speak to her again. Lucien hadn't either. But that didn't mean they were gone.
No.
They lingered.
In shadows. In the spine of the books she once loved. In the back of her mind, where guilt and temptation danced in silence.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:
> You shouldn't have to walk home alone in this. —S
She stared at the screen.
Typed nothing.
Erased everything.
Then:
> Don't text me again.
The reply came instantly.
> Then stop looking for me in places you pretend not to go.
She turned off the screen, heart thudding.
Why did he always know?
And worse—why did he feel right even when everything in her screamed wrong?
The bus didn't come. And the storm grew.
By the time she started walking, soaked to the bone, her abaya heavy with rain, it was almost dark. She should've gone straight home. Should've taken the longer path through the mosque road where the streetlights worked.
Instead, she found herself under the Vale residence gates.
How?
Why?
She didn't even remember turning down this road.
And then the gate opened.
Lucien stood there with a black umbrella and a cigarette burning low.
She froze. "I—didn't—"
"You shouldn't be here," he said, stepping out into the rain. "Which means you wanted to be."
"I was just walking—"
"In the storm? Past our house?" he tilted his head. "You keep showing up in places that ruin you."
Her lips parted, but he continued.
"Do you know what Silas said to me?" Lucien asked. "He said he wants to save you."
Her breath caught.
Lucien stepped closer, rain between them like static. "But I don't. I want to ruin you. I want to see how long you can hold that prayerful heart before it breaks."
She slapped him again.
This time harder.
Lucien touched his jaw, looked at the smear of blood on his finger from where her nail scratched him.
And he laughed.
Dark. Low. Unapologetic.
"I think I like you better when you're not pretending to be pure," he said.
Aaliyah backed away, breath ragged, tears mixing with rain. She turned and ran—not toward home, but away from everything she'd become.
That night, she prayed harder than she had in weeks.
And for the first time… it felt like God didn't answer.
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