The rain started just after midnight.
Not a gentle drizzle but a relentless, wind-lashed downpour that battered the roof and windows like fists demanding to be let in. Thunder rolled across the hills, loud enough to rattle the glass jars in the pantry. Elara stood barefoot in the kitchen, holding a chipped mug of tea gone cold.
She didn't know what had dragged her from sleep—maybe the weather, maybe the way her heart hadn't stopped pounding since the town hall meeting.
The adrenaline had faded, but the ache remained.
From down the hallway, quiet footsteps.
Rowan.
He paused when he saw her, dressed in flannel sleep pants and a Henley shirt, his hair tousled from sleep. Wordlessly, he crossed the floor and poured himself a cup of tea, sitting beside her at the old wooden table. The air was thick with the scent of rain and lavender.
Neither spoke for a long while.
"Can't sleep?" he asked softly.
She shook her head. "Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. Smiling like he's already torn everything down."
Rowan stared at his mug. "He's dangerous. But he's also desperate."
Elara looked up, brows knit. "You think?"
"He's trying to take this fast. Like he knows if you have time, you'll stop him. Because you will, Elara. You're already making him sweat."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "I don't feel powerful. I feel like I'm one misstep away from watching everything fall apart."
Rowan reached across the table and took her hand.
"Then let me help you carry it."
That cracked something inside her.
Not just his words, but the quiet conviction behind them. The way he said it like it wasn't even a question. Like her burden was already half his.
"I've been carrying so much alone for so long," she whispered. "Even before I came back. After Gran died, it was just… me. Me holding together this legacy. Me trying to figure out who I am without her."
She swallowed hard.
"I didn't know if I'd ever feel safe again. Or seen. Or like… I could just be with someone, without having to fight so hard to be understood."
The words spilled like rain, uncontained.
Rowan leaned forward, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "You don't have to fight with me. I see you, Elara. I've always seen you. Even when you were hiding."
She blinked back tears. "What do you see?"
He hesitated, just a moment. And then: "I see someone who's terrified she's not enough—and still shows up every day, for everyone. I see a woman who speaks from her heart even when it might break. I see someone brave enough to stand in front of a whole town and say no."
His voice dropped.
"And I see someone I'm falling for—more than I thought I could."
Elara's breath caught.
The storm outside raged louder, but inside, the silence deepened.
"I don't know how to be with someone when everything around me feels like it's breaking," she said, voice trembling.
Rowan stood and came around the table, kneeling beside her.
"Then let's break together. And rebuild it slower. Softer. Together."
Her tears came fast then—not from sadness, but from release. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace that spoke the words she hadn't said yet, the ones stuck in her chest for weeks.
"I'm scared," she whispered into his shoulder.
"So am I," he said. "But I've got you."
Later, they curled up on the worn couch in the parlor, wrapped in a thick quilt, the thunder still growling in the distance. His fingers found hers again in the dark.
No promises were made.
But in the quiet between the cracks of lightning, something was stitched into place—fragile, but real. A beginning.