POV: Lyra
The rain started around 6PM.
Soft at first—just a whisper against the window panes—but now it's steady. Rhythmic. The kind of rain that keeps people indoors and silences cities. The kind of rain that soaks into your bones if you let it.
I didn't go home tonight.
Instead, I stayed late at the studio. Told myself I needed to finish the revisions on the bridal sketch due tomorrow. Told myself I was behind on fittings. That I had too much to do.
But the truth?
I didn't want to be in my bed again. Staring at the ceiling. Waiting for a call I told him not to make.
Waiting anyway.
I haven't cried.
Not since that night outside Elijah's apartment.
But I've unraveled slowly—stitched in small pieces and torn apart in private. The way I press my lips tighter when I hear his name. The way I avoid green dresses now. The way I start sentences with "I'm fine" even when no one's asking.
I'm not fine.
But I'm managing.
The studio is quiet. Dim. Only one small table lamp glows near my sketchpad. A candle flickers nearby, the vanilla scent barely keeping me grounded.
Then—
A knock.
Three soft raps.
I freeze.
No one knocks at this hour.
I glance at the wall clock.
9:41 PM.
Another knock.
I stand, heart already racing. Each step toward the door feels heavier. Slower. My fingers tremble as I reach for the handle.
I already know it's him.
I feel it before I see him.
I open the door.
And there he is.
Kairo.
Hair wet. Shirt clinging to his chest. Jacket half-drenched. Eyes locked on mine like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
He came.
Just like I told him to.
Not a word. Not yet.
He steps in slowly, as if waiting for me to push him away.
I don't.
I close the door behind him, heart pounding so loud I'm sure he can hear it.
He stands in the center of the studio like he's never been here before.
Like this room hasn't already held pieces of him.
"I wasn't going to come," he says finally, voice low, rain-soaked.
"I know," I whisper.
"But I couldn't stay away."
I nod. Slowly.
Silence.
He looks around. Sees the sketches. The mannequin by the corner. The candle. The shawl draped on the couch.
Everything that is me.
"I waited for you to call," I say.
"I know."
"You didn't."
"You told me not to."
"You listened?"
"Only this time."
I breathe in. Slowly. Sharply.
His eyes are tired. But not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.
The kind that comes from carrying things too long.
He walks closer.
Every step is deliberate.
"I came because…" he starts, then stops. "...because I can't not see you anymore."
My throat tightens.
He's soaked. Standing there like a broken promise trying to heal itself.
And I should push him out.
Tell him to leave.
Tell him he's too late.
But I don't.
Because deep down… I wanted this.
I wanted him.
Not the version that flirts at dinner or says the right things.
This version.
Real. Raw. Rain-drenched and undone.
"Sit," I say softly, motioning toward the couch.
He obeys.
And I sit beside him.
Not touching.
Not yet.
Just breathing the same air again.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped.
"I messed it up. All of it."
I don't disagree.
He turns to me, eyes searching.
"But I want to fix it. Not just with words. Not just tonight. I want to try… properly."
My breath catches.
"I don't trust you yet."
He nods, accepting it.
"I don't expect you to. But I'm here. And I'll keep coming back. Until you do."
I look at him—really look.
And for the first time in days, the ache behind my ribs softens.
Not gone.
Just… quieter.
And for now, that's enough.