The rain came suddenly — not the soft, whispering kind that gave you time to find cover, but the heavy, unmerciful kind that crashed like waves against the pavement. Sophie had barely made it halfway home when the sky cracked open above her.
She darted beneath the shallow archway of a closed bakery, tugging her hoodie tighter around her shoulders. Cold water slid down her spine. Her sneakers were soaked.
Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance.
She looked up at the bruised sky and sighed. "Of course."
And then, like fate had been watching, a car pulled up.
A sleek, black sedan. Engine humming low. Tires hissing against the wet road.
The driver's window rolled down with a soft mechanical hum.
James.
---
He looked surprisingly calm for someone appearing out of nowhere in a storm.
His voice, when it came, was gentle but amused. "Need a lift?"
Sophie blinked. "What are you—?"
"I was passing by," he said simply. "Get in."
She hesitated for only a second.
Then she opened the door and slid inside.
---
The car smelled like cedarwood and something crisp — like cold air wrapped in linen. The seats were warm. The storm beat hard against the windows.
Sophie stared at him. "You really do have a flair for dramatic timing."
James's mouth curved slightly. "I like a proper entrance."
They drove in silence for a few blocks, water sloshing beneath the tires. The windshield wipers kept a steady rhythm. Sophie was just beginning to relax when the engine coughed once, then twice.
And then the car slowed to a stop.
Right in front of a tall, ivy-covered gate.
James exhaled through his nose, annoyed.
Sophie glanced around. "Where are we?"
"My house," James muttered. He drummed his fingers once against the steering wheel. "It's just the rain. She doesn't like wet roads."
"She?"
"The car."
Sophie raised a brow. "You named your car?"
He opened the door and stepped out into the rain without answering.
"Sophie," he called, "come on."
"I can wait—"
"You'll freeze." He paused, softened. "You can trust me."
She hesitated.
But her clothes were already soaked, and there was something in his voice — not demanding, not urgent, just certain.
She got out.
---
The gate opened with an old creak, and they walked together down a gravel path flanked by unruly hedges. Trees arched overhead, heavy with rain. And at the end of the lane stood the house.
Sophie stared.
It was old — clearly so — with high stone walls, long-arched windows, and vines climbing toward the rooftop like forgotten memories. The windows glowed warm from inside, and the iron lanterns flickered faintly in the dusk.
Despite its age, the house was beautiful.
Not in a grand, flashy way.
Beautiful like a forgotten painting or an old love letter: quiet, detailed, weathered, but full of soul.
---
James unlocked the door and held it open.
Sophie stepped into a wide foyer with dark wooden floors, a curved staircase, and soft golden lighting. The space smelled of lavender and books, the air dry and still.
From deeper in the house, a woman's voice called out.
"Mr. James?"
Sophie blinked. Mr. James?
Footsteps approached, and a woman in her fifties appeared — warm brown skin, hair wrapped in a neat scarf, apron tied around her waist.
She stopped when she saw Sophie.
"Oh," she said, pleasantly surprised. "You brought someone."
James nodded. "Mrs. Williams, this is Sophie. Sophie, this is Mrs. Williams. She's the soul of this house."
Mrs. Williams smiled, kind and wide. "He flatters me. I'm just the maid who keeps the house from falling into ruin."
"You do more than that," James said quietly.
Mrs. Williams turned back to Sophie. "You're drenched, poor thing. Come on. Let's get you into something warm."
---
Sophie was wrapped in a towel and ushered into a guest room tucked behind the stairs. The room was simple but elegant — ivory walls, a tall window with sheer curtains, an armchair near a bookshelf filled with dusty volumes.
Mrs. Williams returned with a pair of clean clothes: a soft black sweater and leggings that somehow fit perfectly.
"I'll warm some tea," she said, patting Sophie's arm. "Mr. James doesn't bring people home. Not ever. That means you matter."
Sophie blinked. "Oh. I—thank you."
Mrs. Williams winked. "It's not my place to say, but... he could use someone who makes the house feel lived in."
---
When Sophie came downstairs again, the fire was already lit in the sitting room.
James stood near the window, shirt sleeves rolled up, watching the rain hit the glass.
She joined him on the couch, dry now, holding a mug of hot ginger tea.
"It's beautiful," she said softly.
James glanced over. "The tea?"
"The house."
He gave a slight smile. "She's old. Creaks in the winter. The wiring is impossible."
"I love it," Sophie said. "It feels... untouched. Like time hasn't moved inside it."
"It hasn't," he said, almost to himself. "Not really."
---
They sat for a long while.
Mrs. Williams passed in and out quietly, lighting candles, fluffing cushions, setting out biscuits Sophie would later forget to eat.
James said little.
And yet, the silence between them felt full — not awkward, but thick with something they both understood: that this was a moment neither of them had expected.
A piece of the world they hadn't yet shared.
---
"You treat her like family," Sophie said finally.
"Mrs. Williams?" James nodded. "She's been with the house longer than I have. Keeps the roof up, the floors from falling in, the history intact."
"She called you 'Mr. James.'"
"It makes her feel proper," he said. "She's the one who raised me on warm food and harder truths. I just... pay the bills."
"You love her."
"I do."
Sophie looked around again, then down at her tea.
"You said the house hasn't moved with time."
"I did."
"What did you mean?"
James looked at her carefully, his face unreadable.
"I meant," he said slowly, "that I've lived a long time in houses like this. But this is the first one that felt like it could hold someone else's presence."
"Like mine."
He didn't answer.
But he didn't have to.
---
Outside, the rain eased into a drizzle.
Mrs. Williams returned with a folded scarf and gently draped it over Sophie's shoulders.
"You'll take the driver's car home," she said. "You can't walk in this chill."
"I can—"
"No arguing. I've fed men twice your size into their coats and shoes. You're no match."
Sophie laughed. "Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Williams paused, resting a hand briefly over Sophie's.
"You're welcome here, Sophie. Anytime."
Sophie's throat tightened unexpectedly. "Thank you."
---
By the time she reached the gate, James was walking beside her again.
The air smelled of wet earth and distant lilacs.
"I didn't expect today," Sophie said.
"I didn't either."
"I liked it."
He looked at her, his expression unreadable.
"I did too."
---
That night, wrapped in a blanket and back in her aunt's attic, Sophie opened her notebook.
---
Dear Future Me,
I saw something new today. Something quiet and strange and warm. His house isn't just walls and rooms — it's a place that holds stillness like a secret. A place that doesn't rush time. A place that felt ready to make space for me.
I met Mrs. Williams. She says she's a maid. But James treats her like someone who once rescued him without asking for thanks.
He said the house doesn't move with time. But when I walked through it, I felt like time paused just long enough to let me catch my breath.
Maybe that's what it means to feel safe.
---