It started with rain.
Not the soft kind that whispered over rooftops and kissed the petals of the wild roses climbing her fence. No, this rain roared. It came in sideways, angry and cold, turning the sky into a steel-gray bruise and the cobbled streets of Dawnmere into rivers.
Isla had just locked the last window when she saw it.
The tarp covering the mural—ripped.
She blinked, pressed her forehead to the glass. The storm was lashing now, wind screaming through the alleyways like it had teeth. She could barely see through the curtain of water, but it was clear enough: the wind had shredded the painter's canvas, and the bottom third of the mural—the girl's dress, the storm-cloud folds of it—was being eaten away by the downpour.
Her chest twisted.
It wasn't just a painting. Not anymore.
Grabbing her coat from the hook (navy wool, patched at the elbow, buttons mismatched like they had stories of their own), she shoved on her boots and bolted out the door.
The street was alive with rain, thundering against stone and skin alike. Her braid whipped behind her like a flag as she sprinted across to the bakery wall, boots sloshing through ankle-deep water.
She was halfway through tying the tarp down with rope from the supply crate when a voice shouted behind her.
"What the hell are you doing?"
She turned.
Lennox was striding through the rain like it owed him something, soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his forehead. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, revealing the ink-dark sprawl of the tree on his chest—now glistening with rainwater. His eyes blazed like thunderclouds cracked open from the inside.
"Saving her," Isla shouted back, tugging another knot tight. "She's drowning!"
He stared at her for a breathless beat.
Then, wordlessly, he dropped to his knees beside her and began helping.
They worked in silence, the kind charged with everything not being said. Their hands brushed once, twice—slick with rain, rope burning into their palms—and neither of them pulled away.
When it was done, they stood back, chests heaving, the tarp secured. Rain still pelted down, but the girl in the mural was safe. For now.
Isla wiped water from her eyes, laughing breathlessly.
"I think I swallowed half the ocean."
"You're not supposed to inhale storms, you know," Lennox said, voice rough but softer now. "Bad for the lungs."
Their eyes met.
Lightning cracked somewhere behind them.
Close.
Too close.
"Come on," he said, already pulling her by the wrist. "You'll catch hypothermia out here."
She didn't argue.
---
The studio was warmer than she expected.
It smelled like turpentine and cedarwood and something fainter—lemons? Maybe cloves. The walls were lined with canvases, some finished, most not. Sketches lay curled on every surface. A cat with one eye slept on a pile of wool blankets in the corner, utterly unimpressed by their soaked arrival.
Lennox handed her a towel without a word.
She took it. Pressed it to her hair. Her cheek. Her hands. They were still trembling.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded. "Fine."
Liar.
So was he.
His gaze lingered on her just a second too long. On her shoulders. Her lips. The freckles on her nose that darkened when she was cold.
"Why her?" Isla asked. "The girl on the wall."
Lennox paused, his back to her now. His voice was quiet, like he was afraid the words might wake something sleeping inside him.
"Because I dreamed her," he said. "Before I saw your face."
Her breath caught.
"She looked like you," he continued. "Not exactly. But close enough to burn. She came to me in pieces—hair like flame underwater. Eyes too tired for their age. A mouth that looked like it was made for silence."
Isla said nothing.
"I didn't know she was real," he said, turning now, eyes shadowed. "Not until you stood on that porch and looked at me like you knew."
"I didn't," she whispered.
"Didn't you?"
The space between them was too much and not enough all at once.
Her coat was dripping on his floor. His shirt clung to him like second skin. The room was small. Too small.
"I should go," she said.
"Probably."
Neither moved.
The thunder rolled again.
She was the first to turn. Reaching for the doorknob with shaking fingers.
Then—his voice again.
"Wait."
She froze.
And then his hand, wrapping gently around her wrist, just like earlier. Only now, the touch wasn't frantic or fleeting.
It was deliberate.
Slow.
Her eyes lifted to meet his.
He didn't kiss her.
Not yet.
But he looked at her like he was memorizing what her soul looked like when it flinched. Like he was trying not to fall but knew it was already too late.
"Come back tomorrow," he said again.
Only this time—softer.
Like a promise.
Or a prayer.