She hadn't expected anyone that night.
The apartment was still, wrapped in a hush that felt almost sacred thick with the scent of soap, the whisper of steam still clinging to the mirror, and the warmth of freshly drawn silence. It was the kind of peace that came after the noise of the day had fallen away, after the last drop of hot water had kissed the skin. Nora had just stepped out of the shower. Her body, flushed from the heat, carried the delicate pinkness of being freshly washed, clean in a way that wasn't just physical but almost emotional. A towel clung to her frame, wrapped tightly across her chest, not just for modesty but for protection.
The lights were dimmed, casting an amber glow across the hardwood floors. Shadows stretched long and gentle along the furniture, dancing softly with the flicker of a candle she'd forgotten she lit. The faint scent of jasmine lingered in the air. She took a deep breath, her shoulders falling. For the first time in what felt like forever, she let herself just be. Just breathe. No past. No future. Just the warmth of now.
And then it came.
A knock.
Three of them. Sharp. Controlled. Too deliberate to be casual. Not the hesitant knock of a neighbor looking for sugar, nor the casual beat of a delivery driver rushing through their evening route. No. These strikes were full of weight. Purpose. Something final.
She froze in place, towel still clutched to her chest.
Her heart gave a single, jarring thud.
Eyes flicked toward the door. Her mind raced, scrolling through possible explanations, possible faces but none made sense. She hadn't checked her phone in hours, but she was sure. No one was supposed to come. Not now. Not ever.
Still barefoot, she crossed the wooden floor, every step a whisper against the grain. The chill in the air met the dampness of her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms. She clutched the towel tighter. Her breath was shallow, nerves tightening around her ribs like unseen fingers.
She reached for the handle.
And opened the door.
There he was.
Rowan.
Drenched to the bone. His dark hair matted to his forehead, raindrops trickling down his face like tears he refused to shed. His clothes were soaked, clinging to the hard lines of his frame. His eyes God, his eyes were darker than she remembered. Not with anger. Not with desire. But with something rawer. Something truer. The kind of truth that strips a person down to what's real.
Time didn't move. Neither did they.
She didn't breathe. He didn't blink.
They just stared.
"I know," he said, voice low, strained, carrying a weight that felt like it had followed him through the rain. "I know who Lily was. And I know who you are."
Something cracked inside her. But it didn't show.
She didn't gasp. She didn't deny. She didn't move. Her stillness was absolute, thick as grief, reverent as prayer. The only sign of life was in her eyes, where emotion flickered like candlelight behind glass.
She stepped aside, silent.
And he crossed the threshold like a man unsure if he deserved to, but unable not to. His movements were slow, deliberate, like he was bracing himself for something greater than a storm. His eyes swept the apartment once, as if trying to see the version of her that lived here. The scent of jasmine seemed to wrap around him.
Nora slipped on a cardigan, the fabric soft and thin against her skin still warm from the shower. It felt like armor. A futile one. Her heart beat too loud in her chest, each thump echoing through the quiet like a warning.
"You should've told me," Rowan said, his voice rougher now like gravel dragged across silk, like someone who'd screamed into silence for too long.
"You should've asked," she replied, steady as a knife.
His jaw clenched. "That's not how trust works."
She turned to him slowly. Her gaze was weary, and for a flicker of a moment, she looked like she was made of shadows and light. "Don't talk to me about trust," she whispered. "You think that just because you feel something, you're entitled to the parts of me I buried?"
"I'm not asking for everything," he murmured. "Just honesty."
Her silence stretched between them like a chasm. Then she folded her arms across her chest, less for modesty than to hold herself together. "I didn't come here to be understood, Rowan. I came to finish something. To unbury the truth. For myself."
His voice lowered, almost broken. "And me? What am I in all of this?"
She looked at him.
Long. Slow.
Her words dropped like stones. "A risk. A distraction. A mistake I keep making."
The space between them thickened.
He stepped closer. The scent of rain and him something dark, earthy, and painfully familiar surrounded her. Her breath caught.
"Then why do you keep making it?" he asked, voice tight.
Her throat tightened. Her grip on herself faltered.
"Because I don't know how to stop," she breathed.
And that was it.
The dam broke.
They crashed into each other, not with violence but with inevitability. His mouth found hers, not demanding but claiming like returning home to something lost. Her fingers curled into the collar of his wet shirt, dragging him closer, as if distance itself had become unbearable. His hands gripped her waist, her back, grounding her and shattering her in the same breath.
The towel fell to the floor.
Her cardigan followed.
His wet clothes clung and dropped in turns.
They moved like they were remembering something ancient something carved into them long before they'd met. A story they'd left unfinished, now demanding to be told. Their mouths met with urgency, with reverence. Their breaths tangled. His hands memorized the planes of her skin, slow and certain, like he needed to map every inch just to remember who he was.
She let him.
Because he was the only thing that still made sense.
They reached the counter, the bedroom, the silence in between. There were no words, only touch. Only need. Only truth.
He lifted her onto the edge of the counter, pausing just enough to look her in the eyes.
Searching.
Asking.
Not for permission but for presence.
She answered without hesitation.
Their bodies told the rest of the story. Every sigh. Every touch. Every movement said what words couldn't. They were chaos and surrender. Fire and ache. He kissed every scar like it was sacred, like it was part of the poem of her. She held him like she had waited years, like his body was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
It wasn't perfect.
It was raw.
It was real.
Time disappeared.
Later much later the storm outside softened to a whisper, and they lay tangled in the aftermath. Her back to him. His breathing slow. Hers steady.
But she didn't sleep.
Her eyes were open, staring into the dark.
And Rowan he watched her. Not touching. Just there. His hand hovered above the sheets, inches from her skin, unsure if he was allowed to reach again.
Nothing had been resolved.
But something had shifted.
A silence had taken root between them. A fragile peace. Not forgiveness. Not yet. Not understanding. But something close. A beginning. A thread.
She closed her eyes.
He turned to his side to face her. Watching. Waiting.
The rain started again.
Soft. Steady.
And in the warmth of that space in the breath between wounds and wanting, between past and future they stayed.
Together.
For now.