Chapter 133: Rain on the glass
The rain had started out as a whisper. A gentle hush that crept in during the night and stayed on past morning, thickening the air with a hush that made everything move slower, gentler. By mid-afternoon, the sky had fallen into a dense gray, swallowing the light, casting shadows across the walls of the villa like a shroud.
Caspian and I had overslept, more from necessity than preference. The roads were slick, the wind had picked up, and in the distance, thunder rumbled sleepily over the mountains. As weather that. Smug against the glass and making the world dense. Like it was the storm, Caspian, and me, unto ourselves. Like.
I sat cross-legged on the couch with a blanket over my knees, the aroma of ginger and cinnamon wafting up from the cup in front of me. Caspian was in the kitchen, his shoulders against the counter, his own tea still untouched beside him. He'd not spoken much since breakfast.
We were still learning to sit in silence without it being consumed by things we didn't mean.
The rain hit the windowpane with insistent beat. Not frantic. Not forceful. Just… present.
I found myself reaching for my sketchbook without even thinking. My hand moved almost of its own volition, tracing through pages until I reached a blank one. The pencil was already gripped in my hand.
Caspian was pushed away from me, mindlessly scrolling on his phone, his body loose but coiled up in that way—a guitar string wound too tightly. His jaw clenched once, then fell back. I took in the sweep of his shoulder first, the crease of the cotton of his shirt over his back. The shape of the neck, the sharp tip of the cheekbone. The manner in which the low light was caught in the tangles of his dark hair.
Every stroke was intimate. A kind of quiet trespass.
Not until I was shading the hollow of his throat did he turn.
His gaze landed on the pad before leaping up to mine. "Are you drawing me?"
The corner of his mouth twitched—just barely. But his tone wasn't flirtatious.
I paused, pencil still hovering in mid-air. "Maybe."
He stepped through the room in a few quick steps, his gait smooth but guarded. He stopped short of the armrest, not reaching for the sketchbook, not looking down. Just looking at me.
"How long?" he asked.
I knew what he was really inquiring about. Not how long have you been drawing me, but how long have you had pencil in hand at all?
I swallowed. My fingers locked tighter around the edge of the pad. "A while."
His brow furrowed, his eyes moving down the lines on the page that were unfinished, back up. "Why'd you stop?"
I should have lied. Said I didn't have time. Said it didn't matter anymore.
I looked past him, out the rain-smeared window. My voice was barely above a whisper. "Because each time I did, I saw him. Saw who I was when I was with him. And I loathed that girl."
The words dropped between us like a dropped match.
Caspian didn't move for a long time. Then he relaxed, not beside me, but across—knees against mine, his body sinking into the pillows as though something had been pulling him in that direction. His eyes did not waver.
"About now?" he asked. "Do you still see her?"
I looked at the drawing. At the darkness that still did not match the real contours of his face. "Not today."
Silence crept once more, but not brittle this time. It was warm, guarded. Such as the steam curling up from our cups.
He moved, propping his elbow on the couch cushion, leaning in. "You're good, you know."
"I used to be better."
"You still are Lily, You still are. In fact you are perfect. And I am not just saying this to make you feel good about yourself, I actually mean it.”
That made my heart skip a beat. Not the compliment—he doled those out sparingly, and when he did, it was not out of duty—but the way he spoke It. Quiet. Absolute.
I gazed at him then. Truly looked. At the deepening lines framing his mouth. The faint dust of stubble on the jaw. The exhaustion in his eyes that had not yet dissipated even after sleep.
His gaze fixed on mine like a rope. A pull I didn't try to wrest away from.
Rain dripped down the panes of glass behind him, bending the light like strings of silver. A low growl hummed again behind the door.
"I missed this," I breathed, though I had not meant to say it at all.
"Drawing?" he inquired, his voice level.
"No," I answered in a whisper. "You. Like this. Near, but not angry."
His face flickered—pain and longing and something unsaid all at the same time. He leaned forward, pushing a hank of hair from my face. His fingers lingered an extra beat.
"Then come here," he whispered back to me.
I didn't hesitate.
I edged toward him, crowding into his side. His arm encircled me with ease, fingers curling around at my waist. My sketchpad fell from my lap to the floor quietly.
We sat in this way, curled up together, our breathing synchronizing with each other with ease. His warmth seeped through my sweater. My head was in the hollow of his shoulder as if it were meant to be that way.
Rain grew stronger outside, wind blowing hard enough to shake the windows. But inside, everything was calm.
He didn't kiss me. Didn't speak. Simply pulled his thumb in slow curves over my arm.
And I let myself melt into him. Let the quiet build around us—not a wall but a blanket. Not a wedge but a bridge.
I shut my eyes, feeling the hard thud of his heart against my cheek.
And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, the quiet did not terrify me.
It held me.
Held us.