It rained that night.
Not the kind of dramatic storm that howled through the windows—but a gentle, persistent drizzle, soft enough to be romantic, yet heavy enough to feel like the sky was mourning something unspoken.
Elara stood by her window, arms wrapped tightly around herself. She wore one of the oversized cardigans she had found tucked into the closet—a soft, faded blue thing that smelled faintly of lavender.
Damon had avoided her all day.
No eye contact during meals. No conversation during meetings. Even when she accidentally brushed past him in the hallway, he turned away as if her presence was too loud, too disruptive.
His silence was no longer unfamiliar—it was expected—but that day, it had hurt.
Because something had changed between them.
And now, instead of the cold being distant, it felt personal.
---
Earlier that afternoon…
Elara had entered the study with a tray of tea and a light-hearted smile. Damon was reviewing maps with Ajani, his expression tight and unreadable.
"I thought you could use something warm," she said cheerfully.
He didn't even glance at her. "Leave it on the desk."
Her hand froze mid-step. She forced a smile and set it down.
"I also—"
"You're not required here," he cut in flatly. "If you're bored, find something else to occupy yourself."
Ajani looked away, clearly uncomfortable.
Elara blinked rapidly and gave a curt nod. "Of course, General."
As she left, she heard Xavier's voice echo faintly down the hallway.
"Must be exhausting… keeping everyone at arm's length."
---
Now, hours later, she stood by the window—rain tapping on the glass like fingers urging her to cry.
She had fought it. She told herself she was strong. That she didn't need affection from a man who wore ice like armor. But her chest felt heavy, and her breath came in small, silent tremors.
One tear slid down.
Then another.
Until her vision blurred.
She sank onto the chaise lounge by the window, pulling her knees to her chest. The palace was grand, the room was luxurious—but in that moment, she felt completely alone.
She remembered Mama Ojo's words:
"No matter how fine house be, if e no get laugh and hug, na prison be dat."
And it did feel like a prison tonight.
---
A knock.
She wiped her eyes quickly. Stood up. Adjusted her cardigan.
"Elara," came the voice.
Damon.
Of course.
Now he knocks.
She almost didn't answer. But curiosity—and maybe stubborn hope—forced her hand.
She opened the door slowly. He stood there, his usually pristine shirt damp with rain, hair slightly disheveled. His face was unreadable, but his eyes…
His eyes looked like someone who'd been fighting something inside him and lost.
"I… needed to see you," he said, softer than usual.
"You've been ignoring me," she replied plainly.
"I know."
"Then why are you here now?"
He hesitated. "Because I was wrong."
Her brows lifted. "You? Admitting you're wrong? Call the press."
A ghost of a smile. "I deserve that."
He stepped in and closed the door behind him. The rain provided a soft soundtrack, like a piano lullaby played on the sky's strings.
"I'm not good at this," he confessed. "Feelings. Words. I've spent my life focused on war. On duty. I don't know how to be… kind, when I'm afraid."
She stared at him. "Afraid? You're never afraid."
"I am now," he said. "Because every time I look at you, I feel something I can't control."
Elara's chest ached, but this time… it wasn't from sadness.
She took a step toward him. "Then stop trying to control it."
He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers trembled.
"I saw you crying," he whispered. "I hate that I caused it."
Her lips parted in surprise. "You saw?"
"I never left the hallway."
Something inside her melted.
And slowly, as if afraid of shattering the moment, Damon leaned in and kissed her. Softly. Carefully. Like a man who had dreamed of this but never believed he deserved it.
When they pulled apart, she rested her forehead against his.
"You're still a pain."
"I'm aware," he murmured. "But I'm your pain now."
---