Chapter 155: Post rain
The rain was gone, but lingered at the back of my mind—a hush fell over the city, respectful and subdued. All that lay outside was sparkled with, bathed in silver light. The kind of light which tinctured the streets nigh mythic, as though the world had been washed and born again.
We floated in together in silence, it seemed like if I spoke, I would break the delicate beauty of the moment. He nodded towards his coat and tossed it over the chair next to the door. Rain dripped from his hair, and his shirt collar was smeared with rainwater, and when he turned to look back over his shoulder at me, something in the expression froze me in my tracks.
"You look like you own the world," he said.
I blinked. "What?"
His lips curled into a small smile. "The lipstick."
Months. I hadn't even realized I'd applied it until I'd seen myself reflected in the glass doors at the museum, earlier. Bright red. A color once that had made me feel like armor. Today it had made me feel. like returning to myself.
"You're staring," I said, flustered.
"You're making it hard not to."
No sarcasm in his voice. Just still conviction. He looked at me the way one looks at art when one has been left speechless by it—like he couldn't quite get his head around that I was really there.
I entered the kitchen, wishing to keep myself occupied, with the agony pounding at my chest. "You hungry?"
"A little." He braced himself on the counter, watching as I rummaged through the fridge.
"Warm up the soup from last night, I could," I told him, voice light, although my hands trembled. "Or boil some pasta—"
"Lily," he interrupted, gentle tone.
I hesitated, soup pot still clutched in my hand.
He moved closer. "You don't have to distract yourself."
I looked up, and there it was—that unflinching gaze. I'd seen him kill multi-billion-dollar deals, tough men, scandals, betrayals—but the look he gave me now was somehow infinitely more lethal. Because it was gentle. Because it looked too deeply.
I put the container aside and rested against it, taking slow breaths. "It's not about the lipstick."
"I know."
"JUST. after all that's happened with Nathaniel, after all I've been thinking—I took so long to even care about wanting to be pretty again. And now I do, and it scares me."
His hand wrapped around mine, holding me in place.
"You're strong," he told me. "Not because of the lipstick. But because you made the choice to put it on."
My throat closed up. "I don't know how to be this version of me yet."
He took one of my hands and kissed the palm of my wrist. "Then let her be soft until she remembers she's strong."
My eyes filled with water. I blinked them away.
We just stood there like that for what felt like an hour—his thumbs on mine, the kitchen dark and silent behind us. Soup went hard on the counter, half-finished. The city thrummed outside the glass, but all of that just didn't matter right now except for the way he touched me without wanting.
"I'm not afraid of falling anymore," I whispered.
His brow furrowed upwards. "No?"
"I'm afraid of peace. Of actually having it, and not being able to deal with it."
He leaned back. "Then we pace ourselves with it. Let it develop and mature."
I nodded, the lump in my chest dissolving.
And then, at last, we warmed up the soup. We sat at the table, toes shuffling on the wood, and talked about the museum. About a painting he liked—a painting that was black, abstract, filled with jutting lines.
"I disliked it," I told you, smiling over my spoon.
He chuckled. "Because of that's why I loved it. It had teeth."
"Of course you're going to love something that looks like a battlefield."
He laid no contradiction on me. "Sometimes wars say the truth more loudly than anything else."
"But the whole reason for today was that you and I didn't have to fight."
He looked up at me over the rim of his glass, the corner of his mouth twisting. "And yet here you are—dressed in red as in defiance."
I could feel the flush spreading up on my skin. I dropped my eyes, suddenly shy.
We remained in the living room afterwards, after the dishes were washed and put away. The rain had streaked the windows silver and pricked them with drops.
The city lights shone, blurred through overdrops.
Caspian lit a candle on the coffee table, and its soft light cast golden shadows on his face. He sat beside me, one arm over the back of my shoulders along the couch, but he didn't touch me. Not yet.
"I used to believe love had to be overwhelming," I said to him, watching the flame.
"Loud. Sweeping. Like in the movies."
He glanced over at me, not a word.
"But this." I pointed to us—the flicker of the candle flame, the rumble of the city, the way our bodies appeared to lean toward one another without even realizing to bridge the gap. "This is what I never knew I needed."
He grasped my hand then, his fingers tracing the shape of my cheek.
"I don't need to burn the world to love you," he said. "I just need to heat you up."
The words fell into the quiet like old friends. I curled up against him, putting my head on his chest, my mouth on his shoulder.
"You do," I whispered.
His chin rested on my hair. We did not speak a word for hours. His fingers sketched slow, empty designs on my arm. My breathing matched his breathing. Quiet fell over us—not the kind you fight for, but the kind that settles over you when you cease running.
And there I remained, immersed in the rain's sound and his drumbeat of heartbeats, something that hit me I hadn't dared realize prior to that.
I wasn't waiting for the next storm.
I was learning to live with quietness.