The rain had started again, a soft drizzle tapping against the floor-to-ceiling windows like fingertips drumming a lullaby. The sky was a muted silver, clouds stretched thin across the horizon, making the world outside feel distant and slow. Inside the penthouse, time bent gently around them, all sharp edges dulled by the storm's hush and the soft glow of lamplight.
Nicholas returned to the living room with two mugs in hand—one dark green ceramic, the other a pale cream one he knew she liked. Ella was curled up on the oversized couch, buried beneath a knit throw blanket that had once belonged to his grandmother. She looked tiny, tucked in with pillows on either side, her bandaged wrist resting lightly on her stomach, her hair loose and damp from the bath he'd helped her with earlier.
Her head turned at the sound of his steps, eyes lighting when she saw him.
"Is that—?"
