The wind howled through the night, rattling the lanterns that burned weakly against the storm. The rain was heavier now, cold and merciless, soaking through her clothes, clinging to her skin.

And he—he just stood there.

A shadow in the rain.

Unmoving. Unbothered. Unshaken.

Rhea clenched her jaw, her fingers tightening around the cold steel of her weapon. She had asked him once. Who are you?

He had refused to answer.

She had asked again. Are you the one who sneaks into my room?

He had only given her one word. No.

That single word had slithered through her chest, settling deep in a place she didn't want to acknowledge.

Because now she knew.

It wasn't him.

But it should have been.

Because she would have preferred knowing it was the same man. The same intruder with the scent of sandalwood who had left his presence like a stain on her nights. The same unwanted visitor who had slipped into her space as if he belonged there.

But this was someone else.

And that made it worse.

Because she felt him.

Because even now, even through the storm, her body was betraying her.

It was the scent of him. Earthy musk. Deep, rich, dark. The scent of rain on soil, of forests after a storm, of something raw and unpolished.

It wasn't supposed to make her feel this way.

It wasn't supposed to make her pulse quicken, wasn't supposed to make heat curl low in her stomach.

And yet—it did.

She wanted to hate him for it.

So she attacked.

She lunged, her blade flashing in the dim torchlight. The sharp edge of the hairpin sliced toward him, cutting through the air—

But he moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

He dodged the blade like he had expected it, and before she could strike again, he caught her wrist.

The force of it sent her forward, too close—far too close.

And suddenly—there was no space left between them.

Her breath left her in a sharp gasp as she collided against him.

Solid. Warm. Unyielding.

Her free hand landed against his chest, fingers splayed wide over the soaked fabric of his tunic. The heat of his body bled through, even in the rain.

Why was he so warm?

Her breath hitched.

Why was she still standing this close?

Rhea refused to move. Refused to acknowledge the way her body wanted to react.

But he wasn't moving either.

He was holding her there.

The hand on her wrist tightened, his grip firm but not painful. He wasn't stopping her. He was keeping her close.

She could feel his breath—hot against her damp skin, brushing against her temple.

The scent of him curled around her, earth and smoke and something dark.

His chest rose and fell beneath her fingers.

And Rhea hated the way she noticed it.

She hated the way she felt the steady, deep thrum of his heartbeat against her palm.

Too fast. Just like hers.

Her throat tightened. She wanted to speak, to push him away, to demand why he was here—

But before she could, he moved first.

His grip shifted.

His fingers curled against her wrist, trailing upward.

The backs of his knuckles brushed along the damp skin of her forearm—barely a touch, but enough to steal her breath.

She didn't move.

Neither did he.

The world around them was a storm—violent, howling, merciless.

But they stood in the center of it, frozen in time, a breath away from something they could never take back.

And then—he exhaled, his breath ragged, his voice lower than the thunder.

"I'm sorry."

Rhea's breath stilled.

His fingers flexed against her, as if warring with himself, as if he shouldn't be doing this—shouldn't be touching her.

And yet—he didn't stop.

He swallowed, the motion visible even in the dim light.

"I'm sorry for the past." His voice was rough, thick with something she couldn't place.

His hand lifted—slowly, hesitantly.

Before she could react, before she could push him away—

His fingertips brushed her cheek.

Rhea inhaled sharply, because he was warm.

Even in the cold, he was so damn warm.

His thumb grazed the curve of her jaw, the touch almost... reverent.

And that—that was what made her freeze.

Not the closeness. Not the rain. Not the way their bodies were pressed together in a way that should have made her pull back.

But the way he touched her.

Like he had done it before.

Like he had memorized her already.

Like he was remembering something he had lost.

"And I'm sorry for the future."

His words cut through the storm, through the heat pressing between them, and for the first time, she heard it.

The regret. The ache.

The goodbye.

Her throat tightened.

"Why?" she asked, hating the way her voice betrayed her.

Why does it feel like you've done this before?

His eyes darkened. His fingers trembled against her cheek.

And then, voice raw and broken, he whispered:

"Because no matter how much I want to..."

His forehead dropped against hers.

Breath against breath. Nothing between them but air and choices.

"...I cannot stay."

And just like that—

The warmth was gone.

His touch vanished.

And when she opened her eyes—

He was gone, too.

Leaving only the storm.

Leaving only the scent of him—earthy musk and regret.

Leaving only the memory of his warmth against her frozen skin.

And Rhea hated him for it.

Hated the way he left. Hated the way he felt like something unfinished. Hated the way her own pulse betrayed her.

Because even now—even as she stood alone in the rain—

She could still feel him.

And that was the worst part of all.