The engine fell silent, and suddenly only the rain remained. It fell so fine and persistent that it crept into my bones like background noise. I got out, the car door shut behind me, and at that moment, I saw him.
Alaric stood at the end of the driveway. Hood half-covering his wet hair, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders broad—a shadow that couldn't be dismissed. No grand gesture, just that look: calm, attentive, as if he'd learned to wait in the rain until I came to him.
"Inside the house," my father said behind me. He didn't need volume; his voice was a tool, practiced for years at cutting boundaries into the air.
I nodded, but my feet only half obeyed. One step. Then I stopped.
