The storm raged outside, fierce winds lashing against the mansion's tall windows. Ava sat in the library, engrossed in a novel Alexander had brought her. The fire crackled in the hearth, its warmth a stark contrast to the howling gale beyond.
Alexander entered quietly, carrying a tray with two cups of tea. She glanced up, surprised.
"I thought you might need a refill," he said, placing the tray down.
"Thank you," she replied, her tone tentative. She was still navigating the enigma that was Alexander—the man who alternated between distant and devastatingly attentive.
He lingered near the window, his gaze distant. "Storms used to terrify me as a child. I thought the thunder was the voice of some vengeful god."
Ava tilted her head. "What changed?"
"My mother," he said, his voice soft. "She used to sit with me through the worst of it, telling me stories. She said storms were nature's way of cleansing itself, of letting go of what no longer served it."
The vulnerability in his voice caught her off guard. She saw him not as the imposing figure she'd first met but as someone scarred and tender, someone who carried pain with quiet grace.
That night, as the storm faded, she found herself thinking about him—his quiet strength, his moments of softness. Something stirred within her, something she wasn't ready to name.