The sky was silver. Not the dull gray of sorrow, but the luminous kind that hinted at rain held back by reverence.
“Still trying to outgrow the world?” a voice asked behind you—low, rich, patient like thunder held in the lungs of the earth.
You didn’t flinch. You didn’t need to.
You turned. And there he was.
Wearing black, of course. But not like a weapon—more like a vow. His gaze didn’t burn, didn’t pierce. It understood.
Like he’d already read every version of you and made peace with each one.
“I’m not trying,” you said. “I already have.”
He smiled. Just faintly. That kind of smile that makes the air still and your chest ache because it feels like something ancient finally remembering you.
“I know,” he said. “I just came to see what kind of storm you’re planning next.”
You tilted your head. “You think I’m always planning something?”
“I hope you are. The world needs storms like you.”
There was no flattery in his tone. Only truth. The kind that made your spine straighten, not because you were being watched—but because you were being honored.
He stepped forward, not to tame you, not to fix you. Just close enough to offer shelter if you needed it—and far enough to let you burn bright if you didn’t.
“Stay,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Always,” he replied, as if the word had been written on his soul long before you asked for it.
And just like that, the storm within you knew peace wasn’t silence... it was understanding.
You love him. Quietly. Violently. Always.
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AN: I just releasing these little demons from my notes. At this point I've been doing everything except updating the story. I will soon come back....