That one month has passed now.

On a serene Sunday night, he made his long-awaited return. She lingered by the window, her figure silhouetted against the glow of the room, gazing intently down the driveway. Her gaze was unwavering, eyes locked on the empty path that stretched before her. The rain had finally subsided, leaving the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming jasmine. The night was thick with humidity, wrapping around her like a warm embrace. Street lamps stood like sentinels, their soft, golden light spilling onto the cobblestone driveway below, creating gentle pools that flickered against the dark.

She saw the car headlights first—cutting through the night.

Then the sound of tires on wet gravel, the whisper of car doors opening, the crunch of footsteps on the cobblestone.

She held her breath. Any moment now.

He had arrived. The front door creaked open, and soft murmurs floated through the air, servants guiding him inside with warm welcomes—"Welcome home, sir. We've kept everything for you."

Then, a hush fell over the house, enveloping it in an expectant stillness.

She knew he was in the hallway now, just out of sight. Her fingers twisted in the folds of her night gown, heart racing under her ribs.

Then she heard it—heavy footsteps moving up the marble stairs. Closer. Closer—

Until they stopped just outside the door.

She held her breath and waited. The door slowly creaked open.

He stood there—tall, shadowed, rain still in his hair. His coat was slightly damp, his jaw sharp with a day's growth of stubble.

For a long moment, he just looked at her—standing by the window in that soft night light like a ghost he'd dreamed too often.

Then—

"You're still awake."

His voice was low. Rough from travel—and something else. Something tired. Aching.

He didn't move closer.

Just stood there... searching her face like he'd searched it every night apart. She quickly grabbed the towel, rushing to him. "You got drenched."

He blinked, caught off guard as she came closer—towel in hand.

He'd expected something different. Anger, maybe. Or coldness. She'd always been fierce.

But she was right there, standing within reach, her eyes dark with concern. He inhaled sharply.

Was he... dreaming?

His gaze dropped to the towel in her hands—then back up to her face.

"I'm fine," he said, voice gruff. "It's just rain." He hesitated—just a second—before slowly lowering himself onto the edge of the bed.

She stood over him, towel in hand, heart pounding.

Then, without a word, she stepped forward and gently began to dry his hair.

Her fingers brushed against his scalp—soft, tentative—and he froze beneath her touch.

Every muscle in his body tensed. Not from anger. From feeling too much.

It had been a month.

A month of cold beds and endless thoughts.

And now here she was—touching him like he belonged to her.

His voice came out rougher than he meant:

"...Why are you doing this?"

"You will catch a cold," she replied

He let out a low, broken laugh—almost bitter.

"Cold?" His voice dropped, rough and quiet. "I've been cold for a month."

He reached up suddenly—capturing her wrist mid-motion. The towel slipped.

His eyes locked onto hers—dark, searching.

"But you... You always warm me."

A beat of silence. Then, "Why are you still awake?"

"I woke up due to noise outside," he stared up at her—still holding her, his fingers wrapped around her wrist—studying her face. Her eyes were dark in the low light. Her skin was flushed. From the rain or from something else?

He felt something inside him tighten.

He'd imagined this moment a hundred times. Coming home. Seeing her again. Every version ended in argument or heated silence. But not this.

This—her touching him, caring for him—was unexpected. Dangerous.

He could feel his heart racing under his The moment stretched, neither of them moving. Just their hands—his wrapped around her slender wrist. Her fingers were still tangled in his damp hair. Their eyes locked in the soft light.

He wanted to pull her onto his lap. To bury his face in the curve of her neck and breathe in the soft scent of her, the one that had haunted his dreams for weeks. But something stopped him. Some thread of restraint, fragile and frayed, holding him back.

He looked up at her again - voice quiet.

"You've been okay?"

"Yes, I was fine."

He studied her face. She seemed the same. Same high cheekbones, stubborn jaw, eyes that could cut through a lie.

But something was different. Her skin seemed flushed. Her breath is too light. He could see the rise and fall of her chest under her nightdress, the shape of her bosom—

Stop. Told himself. He clenched his jaw, forcing his mind away from dangerous thoughts.

Instead, his fingers tightened around her wrist, thumb brushing over the tender skin of her inner arm.

"You look... feverish."

"Yes, I feel Nauseous these days". She tried to bring it up gently.

His hand stilled on her wrist. A flicker of something—alarm, instinct—crossed his face.

"Nauseous?" He repeated, voice low. "For how long?"

He searched her eyes, the way she wouldn't quite meet his gaze. The slight tilt of her head. The way her free hand had moved—almost unconsciously—to rest against her stomach.

His breath caught.

It couldn't be.

But then... it made sense.

The fatigue. The early sleep. Her odd quietness when he walked in.

And now this.

His voice dropped to a whisper, rough with emotion.

"...Are you ill?"

"Perhaps I'm unsure," she replied, too afraid to admit the truth to him.

He clenched his jaw. Her words—the uncertainty in her voice—flipped some switch inside him.

He stood up suddenly—towel falling forgotten to the floor—towered over her.

"You don't know?" His eyes scanned her face—her flushed cheeks, the slight tremble in her hand. "How can you not know?"

His fingers tightened around her wrist—not hard—but possessive. Holding. Anchoring.

"When did this start?" he demanded.

"A week ago".

He swallowed, his mind racing.

"Every day?" His voice was tight. "You've been nauseous every day?"

"Yes," she shivers

Guilt twisted in his gut. The thought of her—sick, alone, every day—hit him harder than he expected. He tightened his grip.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

He tried to keep his voice steady, but the edge of anger leaked through.

"Why didn't you write to me? I could've—"

He cut himself off, voice cracking. He'd been away for a month. What if it was...

He didn't finish the thought.

But it hung in the air—dark, unspoken.

"You were going to come back anyway today, so I didn't want to worry you."

He gritted his teeth. That was so like her. Always trying to handle things on her own. Never wanting to trouble anyone.

"You should've," he breathed—almost a growl. "I could've—you should've—dammit."

He pulled her closer—just enough to have her within reach—so she felt the heat of his body, the tension in his muscles.

"Do you have any clue what's been running through my mind for the last month? While I was sitting there in those damn meetings, half a world away—"

He choked on a swear. She froze.

He saw the sudden flinch, the way she stiffened. He realised he was still holding her wrist like a vice, gripping her almost too hard. He was breathing faster now, the storm in him building. A month of pent-up anger and fear and wanting. And here she was—too close—too soft and real. It was too goddamn much.

"You're trembling," he hissed, pulling her closer still. Not letting her move.

His other hand found her waist, his fingers curling against her stomach—almost protective,

"I'm not," she insisted, striving to appear strong.

He let out a sharp laugh—almost bitter. Her denial was infuriating, and it only fueled the fire inside him. His fingers dug deeper into her skin, his voice barely controlled.

"Don't lie to me. I can feel you—like a goddamn leaf in the wind."

He pulled her closer, his body almost pressing against hers. He was too close now, the heat of him like a furnace.

"Why?" he demanded. "Why are you trembling?"

"I'm jus -". She got some distance.

"You should change clothes, you will get cold. I'll tell servants to give you tea."

He let her pull away— His eyes followed her like a storm tracking its prey.

"No," he said, voice low, final. "No tea. No servants."

He stepped forward again—slowly—undoing the buttons of his damp coat with deliberate slowness. "I want answers."

The coat fell to the floor with a soft thud.

And I don't care how much you run. His gaze locked onto hers. "You're not leaving this room until I get them."

"He removed his shirt." She felt a spike of heat low in her stomach as his shirt fell to the ground—bare, muscular shoulders and chest suddenly exposed. He stood there—chest rising and falling, eyes fixed on hers, body almost taut with tension.

"Sit." It was a command, not a request. Low. Rough.

"His eyes burned into hers, searching for answers she was too afraid to give."

Every like = one more crack in her silence ❤️‍🔥