The rain arrived before dawn — gentle at first, then steady, washing dust from the courtyard stones. Alessia woke to the sound of it tapping against the windows, the world outside blurred and silver. The Moretti estate, usually so still, seemed to breathe differently in the rain — slower, gentler, as if the walls themselves were learning to rest.
She sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. The air smelled of wet earth and olive trees. For a moment, she simply listened — to the rain, to the faint creak of the old house, to the quiet that had become both comfort and curse.
Downstairs, she found Damian already awake. He stood by the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled, coffee brewing. The sight startled her — not because he was there, but because he looked almost ordinary. No suit, no mask of control. Just a man, tired and alive.
"You're awake early," she said, leaning against the doorway.
He didn't turn. "Couldn't sleep."
"Nightmares?"
He poured the coffee, his movements deliberate. "Something like that."
She took the cup he offered, their fingers brushing briefly. The warmth of it seeped into her palms. "You know," she said softly, "you don't have to keep pretending you're fine."
He looked at her then, eyes dark and unreadable. "And what would I be if I stopped pretending?"
"Human," she said simply.
He almost smiled — almost. "That's dangerous in my world."
"Maybe that's why you need it."
By midday, the rain had stopped, leaving the air cool and clean. The estate glistened under the pale light, every leaf jeweled with water. Alessia walked through the garden, her dress brushing against wet roses. She paused by the fountain, watching the ripples spread across the surface.
Damian joined her quietly, his footsteps soft on the gravel. "You shouldn't be out here," he said. "You'll catch a cold."
She smiled faintly. "You sound like someone who cares."
He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "Maybe I do."
The words hung between them, soft but sharp.
Alessia turned away, pretending to study the roses. "You're not supposed to."
"I know."
She glanced at him, her voice low. "Then why do you?"
He looked at her, his tone even. "Because you're my wife."
The words were simple, but they carried weight — not affection, not yet, but something close to it.
Alessia turned to him, her expression unreadable. "Is that the only reason?" she asked.
He met her gaze, steady and calm. "It's the reason that matters."
Her breath caught, but she said nothing. The wind moved through the garden, carrying the scent of rain and something unspoken.
That night, the storm returned. The sky cracked open with thunder, and the estate trembled under its weight. Damian stood by the window in his room, watching lightning split the horizon. The reflection of the storm flickered across his face — light, shadow, light again.
A knock came at the door. Soft. Hesitant.
"Come in," he said.
Alessia stepped inside, wrapped in a shawl. Her hair was loose, her eyes tired but calm. "The storm's loud," she murmured. "I couldn't sleep."
He nodded toward the chair by the fire. "You can stay here until it passes."
She sat, curling her legs beneath her. "You always act like you're made of stone," she said. "But I think you're just bad at saying what you feel."
He turned to her, one brow raised. "And what exactly do you think I feel?"
She smiled. "That you like having me around."
He looked away, hiding the faintest smirk. "You talk too much."
"And you listen too little."
The thunder rolled again, closer this time. Damian moved to the window, watching the rain streak down the glass.
He turned, his expression unreadable, but his voice softened. "You should rest, Alessia."
"I will," she whispered, though neither of them moved.
The storm raged outside, but inside the room, the quiet between them held steady — not fragile, not forced, just real.