The rain had intensified again when I stepped out of the car.
The drops pattered on the asphalt, sounding like a thousand tiny steps closing in around me. My jacket soaked through immediately, water crept over the collar, running ice-cold down my back. I shivered—not just from the cold, but from what awaited me.
And there he was.
Alaric.
At the edge of the driveway, half in light, half in shadow.
Hands buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, wet hair clinging to his forehead, rain sliding down his cheeks without him moving.
He looked as if he had merged with the rain, as if he'd been standing there forever—motionless, waiting, like a silent promise.
My heart beat faster. Too fast.
Each pulse echoed his gaze.
"Into the house," my father said curtly.
His voice cut through the rain—hard, cold, impossible to ignore.
I stood still.
Only one step separated me from the door, but it felt like a boundary no one could cross without consequences.
