The rain had been falling for hours.
Soft at first — a whisper against the windowpane — but now it screamed in sheets, drowning the streets and turning the quiet little town into a blur of gray and glistening black.
Estelle didn't mind. She liked the rain. It made the world slower. Quieter. Safer.
She wiped down the front counter of the bookshop for the third time, even though no one had stepped in since noon. The scent of old pages and chamomile tea lingered in the air — a comforting sort of loneliness.
Outside, the streetlamps flickered. Through the fogged glass, she could just barely make out the silhouette of someone moving across the road. Limping. Staggering.
She should've looked away. Should've pulled the curtain shut and turned off the lights.
But she didn't.
Estelle stood frozen as the figure came closer — a man, tall and soaked through. He moved like something wounded. Not just physically, but deeper. A weight that made his steps drag through the storm.
Then, suddenly, he collapsed.
She ran before she could talk herself out of it.
His blood was warm against her fingers. Not much, but enough to stain. A gash at his temple, a bruise blooming dark at his jaw. His shirt was half unbuttoned, soaked and clinging to a body sculpted by something harder than gym routines — pain, perhaps. Violence.
He wasn't unconscious. Not really.
When her hand brushed his shoulder, his eyes snapped open.
Dark. Ferocious. And utterly feral.
She flinched.
But he didn't move. He just… looked at her. Like he was trying to remember something. Or someone.
Estelle swallowed and whispered, "You're bleeding."
He said nothing. His breathing was shallow. A faint tremor passed through him, like he was holding onto the last thread of control.
"I'll call someone," she said softly. "A doctor, or—"
"No."
His voice was rough, like smoke and rust.
She blinked. "No?"
"No cops. No ambulance. No names."
He tried to sit up, swaying slightly, and she caught his arm before she could stop herself.
"I wasn't going to call the cops," she said, quieter this time.
Something flickered in his eyes.
He looked at her hand — still resting on his skin — then back at her face.
"You're not afraid of me," he said.
It wasn't a question.
Estelle held her breath.
"No," she said finally, "I just haven't decided if I should be."
She brought him inside.
Wrapped him in towels. Gave him a clean T-shirt from the lost and found box. Made him tea. He didn't drink it, but he held the cup like it grounded him.
He sat on the edge of the dusty couch, water still dripping from his hair, eyes scanning the shop like he expected something to lunge from the shadows.
"You live here?" he asked, voice low.
"I sleep upstairs," she replied. "The building came with the job."
He nodded, gaze flicking to the staircase in the back.
"Why'd you help me?" he asked, finally.
Estelle hesitated. She didn't have an answer. Not a real one.
"Because you looked like someone who's never been helped."
He turned to her, sharply. As if the words had struck a nerve he'd buried too deep.
They stared at each other in the dim lamplight. Something passed between them — a silence so heavy, it felt like it had weight. Like it could tip her whole world over if she let it.
"Thank you," he said eventually.
It wasn't just gratitude. It sounded almost… resentful. As if saying it cost him something. As if kindness was a foreign language on his tongue.
She nodded, unsure how to respond.
When she turned to head upstairs, his voice stopped her.
"What's your name?"
She paused at the bottom step.
"…Estelle."
A beat passed.
Then, softly:
"Estelle."
He said it like a secret. Like a name he already owned.
The rain hadn't stopped.
Neither had her thoughts.
Estelle lay awake for hours. Even after the stranger had gone quiet downstairs, even after she'd told herself — more than once — that he'd be gone by morning, something in her refused to rest.
His presence filled the shop. Not just physically — but in the air. In the hush between every heartbeat.
At dawn, she gave up trying to sleep.
She descended the staircase slowly, barefoot, wearing only a loose cardigan and the faded T-shirt she always slept in. The wooden steps creaked beneath her, but the shop was silent. Still.
Then she saw him.
Not gone. Not even asleep.
Zayden was standing at the bookshelf nearest the front window, running his fingers over the spines of old novels. His hair was dry now, tousled and darker without the rain. He'd pulled on the clean shirt she'd given him, and even in something simple, he looked like something the world shouldn't touch.
But she had touched him.
Her fingers still remembered the heat of his skin.
"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, softly.
He turned toward her, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
"You talk in your sleep," he said.
She froze. "I—what?"
He stepped closer, slow but sure. "Said something about burning."
Her cheeks flushed before she could help it. "That's not… It doesn't mean anything."
"Didn't say it did."
Silence stretched between them again — not awkward, not cold. Just charged.
He looked down at her, eyes lingering too long on the exposed curve of her collarbone before drifting to her mouth. She pulled the cardigan tighter around herself. Too late.
His voice dropped. "You always take in strangers who bleed on your doorstep?"
"No," she said. "Just the ones who look like they've never been let inside."
That made him pause.
He looked at her differently after that. Not softer. But sharper. Like she'd peeled away something he kept hidden even from himself.
They sat in the quiet for a while. No questions, no small talk. The world outside was mist and morning light. Inside, the hush felt sacred.
Estelle brewed another cup of tea. This time, Zayden took it.
Their fingers brushed. Just for a second. But it was enough.
She looked up at him — and what she saw in his eyes made her forget every warning she'd ever given herself.
He didn't just look at her. He studied her like a memory that never faded. Like something he already missed.
"I'll be gone soon," he said.
She didn't reply.
"I don't stay long. I don't… stay, at all."
Still, she said nothing.
He waited. Watching her.
"You're not going to ask why?"
Estelle stirred her tea, slowly. Then looked him straight in the eye.
"No. Because I think you want me to."
His jaw clenched. Like her answer touched something raw.
"You're not what I expected," he said.
"And what did you expect?"
"I don't know. Something softer. Something that runs."
Her voice was quiet, but certain. "Maybe I'm just too tired to run."
He took a step closer. Just one. Close enough for her to smell the faint traces of her soap on his skin. Close enough for the tension to rise like breath before a kiss.
"You should be careful," he said, voice low.
"Why?"
"Because I don't know what I'd do if you let me stay."
He didn't say another word after that.
And Estelle didn't ask him to.
They sat in the fading gold of early morning, the storm quieting into a distant hum outside the bookstore walls. Between them: nothing. No questions, no names beyond what little had been shared. But in the air, the tension shimmered. Electric. Taut.
Estelle watched him over the rim of her tea.
Zayden wasn't just dangerous. He was composed. Watchful. The kind of man who had learned how to wear silence like a second skin.
But now… there was something restless in the way his fingers curled around the mug. The way he kept glancing at her and then looking away — like the nearness of her was beginning to undo something.
She set her cup down, quietly. The sound of porcelain against wood felt loud in the stillness.
"Do you have somewhere to go?" she asked.
"No."
His voice was like gravel — raw from disuse, or restraint.
"Someone waiting for you?"
He hesitated. "No one."
"Are you running from something?"
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then: "Aren't you?"
Her breath caught.
The question cut deep, not because it was cruel, but because it was true. She had run. Left behind a name that wasn't safe. A life built like a prison in gold and silk. A future someone else had chosen for her.
But she didn't say any of that. Just stared at him, wondering how he'd seen it.
"You have that look," he said, quieter now. "Like the world tried to tame you. And failed."
Estelle stood, slowly. She didn't walk away — just crossed the space between them with steps that didn't feel entirely her own.
"You don't know me," she said.
"I don't have to." His voice dropped. "I recognize the fight."
Now she was standing in front of him. Close. Too close.
He looked up at her from where he sat — and that gaze didn't just touch her, it invaded. It stripped away the air between them, layer by careful layer.
His hand lifted. Not to grab, not to force — just to reach.
Fingertips brushed against the hem of her cardigan. Ghosting upward. A knuckle grazed her waist, just under the edge of her shirt, like he was asking a question without words.
And her breath — soft, shallow — gave him the answer.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't need to say yes.
She was already saying it with her stillness, with the way her eyes met his and didn't flinch.
He stood.
God, he was tall. And close.
One hand cupped the side of her face. The other hovered just above her hip, not quite touching.
He looked at her mouth, and then — with a restraint that felt like it hurt — didn't kiss her.
"I don't know how to be careful," he said, voice rough. "And I don't think I could be. With you."
A pause.
Her lips parted, a breath trembling through her.
"You're bleeding again," she whispered, almost dizzy from his nearness.
He smiled. Just slightly. "Where?"
"Here." Her fingers lifted, barely brushing the side of his jaw. "You reopened the bruise."
His eyes flicked to her lips again.
But he didn't move.
Neither did she.
They stayed there — suspended in a breath, a heartbeat, a moment that might break if they dared to lean closer.
And then—
He stepped back.
Just one step.
But it felt like the whole world exhaled.
Estelle blinked, her skin aching where his hands had almost been.
"I should go," he said, voice low.
She nodded. Even though something inside her didn't want him to.
At the door, he paused.
Turned.
"I'll come back," he said. "If you don't tell me not to."
She didn't.
She just stood there — barefoot, heart racing, not soft at all — and watched him walk into the rain.
The shop was too quiet.
After Zayden left, Estelle tried to go back to the rhythm she knew — sweeping, shelving, making tea she never finished — but everything felt off. The world was in the same place, but she wasn't.
Something about him had shaken loose a part of her she'd locked away. A part that had been quiet for so long, she forgot what it felt like to be noticed. To be seen.
And now that he had seen her…
She couldn't stop replaying it.
The warmth of his hand against her skin.
The way he'd looked at her — like she was the only real thing in a world full of ghosts.
The restraint in his eyes — like kissing her would break something sacred.
It wasn't love. It wasn't even trust.
It was gravity.
And she hated that she felt the pull.
Days passed.
He didn't return.
She told herself she was relieved.
But every time the bell over the door chimed, her heart stuttered.
Not him. Not yet.
Not him at all.
She told herself he was a fluke — a storm in the night, bleeding and dangerous and already gone. But part of her… hoped. Part of her ached.
So she buried herself in routine. In silence. In hiding — the way she always had.
Until the loneliness became unbearable.
That night, she sat at the foot of the staircase long after closing. The lights were off. The rain had come again — soft this time, more like a whisper. She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared out the window, watching the world blur behind the droplets.
She remembered what he'd said.
"You look like the world tried to tame you. And failed."
No one had ever said that to her.
No one had noticed her like that.
She'd spent so long trying to be invisible — quiet enough to avoid drawing attention, perfect enough to avoid punishment, polite enough to avoid control.
But he hadn't looked at her like something fragile.
He'd looked at her like something dangerous.
Like someone who didn't need saving, just space to burn.
Her throat tightened.
She didn't cry often. She hated crying — it made her feel small, and she'd promised herself she'd never be small again.
But tonight, the ache bloomed.
And for a while, Estelle just let herself feel it. Let herself miss someone she didn't even know. Miss the stillness between their words. The way he hadn't tried to fix her. The way he had simply been.
It was almost midnight when she heard the door.
She didn't move.
The bell didn't ring — it was unlocked, and he'd come in quiet.
She knew it was him before she saw him. She felt it.
That charged stillness. That quiet presence.
Like danger walking in on bare feet.
When she finally looked up, he was standing in the dark.
Soaked again. Hood down. Rain dripping from his sleeves.
But his eyes — they didn't look like someone returning.
They looked like someone who had never truly left.
She stood slowly. The silence between them was heavier now. No lightning, no thunder. Just that unbearable tension — the kind that builds before something breaks.
He didn't speak. Neither did she.
He stepped closer.
And her heart cracked open.
Not from fear.
From the way his presence soothed and terrified her all at once.
Like she was safer with him near, even if he was the storm she'd always run from.
She crossed the space between them. Only one step.
Her voice was a breath. "Why are you here?"
Zayden looked at her — really looked at her — and something in his expression fractured.
"Because I couldn't stay gone."
His words hung in the air, soft and heavy.
Estelle didn't speak. She just looked at him.
Zayden stood a step inside the shop, soaked through again, water dripping from the edge of his jaw, clinging to his lashes. He looked tired. But more than that — he looked like someone who had been holding himself together with force of will alone.
And maybe, just maybe, that will was starting to give.
She stepped back slightly, just enough to give him room.
"You're hurt again," she said quietly. Not a question. A statement she'd tried to ignore the moment she saw him.
He didn't answer at first. His eyes dropped, and when she followed his gaze, she saw the blood. A darker red this time, fresh and streaking down his side, blooming through the thin white shirt he wore beneath his jacket.
"Sit down," she said.
He didn't move.
"Zayden."
That was the first time she'd said his name aloud. It tasted different than it had in her head — softer, almost sacred.
That alone made him listen.
He sat down on the old couch again, and she disappeared into the back, returning moments later with a first aid kit, a dry towel, and the trembling quiet of someone holding back more than they should.
Estelle knelt in front of him, her breath unsteady. Her fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.
"May I?" she asked, eyes lifted to meet his.
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
His words hung in the air, soft and heavy.
Estelle didn't speak. She just looked at him.
Zayden stood a step inside the shop, soaked through again, water dripping from the edge of his jaw, clinging to his lashes. He looked tired. But more than that — he looked like someone who had been holding himself together with force of will alone.
And maybe, just maybe, that will was starting to give.
She stepped back slightly, just enough to give him room.
"You're hurt again," she said quietly. Not a question. A statement she'd tried to ignore the moment she saw him.
He didn't answer at first. His eyes dropped, and when she followed his gaze, she saw the blood. A darker red this time, fresh and streaking down his side, blooming through the thin white shirt he wore beneath his jacket.
"Sit down," she said.
He didn't move.
"Zayden."
That was the first time she'd said his name aloud. It tasted different than it had in her head — softer, almost sacred.
That alone made him listen.
He sat down on the old couch again, and she disappeared into the back, returning moments later with a first aid kit, a dry towel, and the trembling quiet of someone holding back more than they should.
Estelle knelt in front of him, her breath unsteady. Her fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.
"May I?" she asked, eyes lifted to meet his.
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
The silence was thick as she peeled the fabric upward, carefully, inch by inch. He winced, but didn't stop her.
The wound wasn't deep — a clean cut across his ribs, red and raw. It looked recent, not more than an hour or two old. The skin around it was bruised, but not broken.
"This should be stitched," she murmured, inspecting it.
"I've had worse," he said, voice quiet but rasped at the edges.
"I don't care," she replied, sharper than she meant. "You're bleeding."
He blinked at her. Surprised, maybe, by her tone. But he didn't speak again.
She cleaned the cut slowly, gently. Her hands were steady, but her heart wasn't.
He watched her the entire time.
Not the way men watched her in the past — with hunger, or power, or boredom.
Zayden looked at her like she was dangerous. Not because of what she might do — but because of what she made him feel.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels. Her gaze lifted, found his again.
"You're always like this?" she asked softly.
"Like what?"
"Half-bleeding. Half-running. All shadow and silence."
His mouth twitched. The barest flicker of something between a smirk and regret.
"I don't know how to be anything else."
She hesitated.
Then reached out — slowly, so slowly — and touched his face. Just a graze of her knuckles against his bruised jaw.
"You're not made of stone, you know," she whispered. "You can break."
His eyes didn't leave hers.
"I already have."
The words settled between them, a truth too quiet for the room.
She swallowed hard. Her thumb brushed his cheekbone.
The distance between them had never felt smaller. Or more dangerous.
But neither of them moved to close it.
Not yet.
She stood and walked to the stairs. Paused at the bottom.
"You can sleep here tonight," she said. "Upstairs. I'll stay down here."
He didn't respond immediately. When she looked back, he was watching her — not with hunger, not even with longing.
But with reverence.
"If I go up there," he said, low and serious, "I don't think I'll be able to leave again."
She didn't blink.
"Then don't."
She made him a bed on the couch anyway.
He didn't argue.
But hours later, long after the storm passed and the world fell quiet again, Estelle woke in the dark.
She walked downstairs, barefoot, heart unsteady.
He wasn't asleep.
He was sitting up, shirt off, eyes open, as if sleep had never even tried to claim him.
He looked at her like he knew she would come.
And for the first time, neither of them said a word.
She sat beside him.
They didn't touch.
They didn't need to.
Their silence said everything.
They were two broken things.
And for once, they weren't breaking alone.