The city was soaked in silver. Rain hadn't just touched the sidewalks—it had drowned them, turned streetlights into melting halos, and blurred the edges of everything. It was the kind of night that asked questions in silence and expected answers in heartbeat pauses.
Amelia sat curled in the corner of her small apartment, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor. Her laptop screen glowed softly on the coffee table, where the cursor blinked endlessly on a blank page. The storm outside had killed the power for a moment earlier, and she hadn't had the energy to light candles. The only light was her screen, and the occasional lightning flash across the window.
The storm was nothing compared to what was happening inside her.
For the past week, she'd avoided Damian. Not because she wanted to, but because she had to. That kiss—his kiss—had turned her entire world upside down. The way he'd looked at her on the rooftop, like she was the only safe thing left in his universe, had shaken her more than she wanted to admit.
And the press was getting louder.
Paparazzi had caught photos of her walking into Vance Enterprises, coffee in hand. She was trending on social media as "The Mystery Girl with the CEO." Her inbox was full of messages from journalists, old friends she hadn't heard from in years, and people offering her everything from interviews to modeling contracts. Her job at the café was at risk—not because she did anything wrong, but because the manager was tired of reporters loitering outside the door with cameras.
It was all too fast. Too loud.
And Damian... Damian hadn't stopped texting. He didn't beg, didn't demand. He just... asked.
"Tell me you're okay.""Let me explain.""I miss talking to you."
She had read each one. Typed responses. Deleted them. She didn't know what she was supposed to feel. Because she hadn't just fallen for a man. She had fallen for a storm in a suit.
And when you fall for a storm, you don't ask it to stay.
You ask it not to break you.
Then came the knock.
Three soft, hesitant taps on the door. As if the storm outside had walked upstairs and put on cologne.
She knew before she opened it.Her heart had already leapt to the conclusion.
Damian stood in the hallway, his black coat soaked through, droplets still clinging to his hair. He looked like a man undone, a little breathless, a little more real than she had ever seen him. He held nothing but a cup of coffee in one hand and a folded letter in the other.
"I brought your favorite," he said. "Cinnamon mocha. Extra sweet."
She stared at him, too stunned to speak.
He offered the coffee like it was peace, like it was his final act of hope. "I didn't know what to say. So I figured I'd give you the thing that made you smile the first time we met."
Amelia's eyes softened, but her voice trembled. "You shouldn't be here. The press—"
"I don't care about the press," he said, gently but firmly. "I care about you."
Silence settled between them like fog.
He hesitated, then handed her the letter. "I wrote this the night we kissed. I was going to give it to you the next morning. But I didn't want to scare you away. I've spent my whole life controlling things. My image. My company. My feelings. But I can't control this. I can't control how much I want to be around you. How different everything feels when you're near."
She unfolded the letter slowly.
It was handwritten. No assistant. No email. Just ink and vulnerability. The first few lines were neat, but toward the end the writing got messier, as if he'd been shaking.
"I never thought anyone could matter this much to me again.You asked me what I was thinking on that rooftop.I was thinking, 'Don't ruin this. Don't ruin her.'But I already have, haven't I?"
She looked up at him. "You didn't ruin me. You scared me. There's a difference."
He stepped closer, rain still dripping from his hair. "Can I come in?"
Amelia hesitated, then opened the door wider. He stepped inside, leaving the storm behind him.
For a long moment, they just stood in her living room—two people trying to breathe in a world that had stopped making sense. The coffee sat untouched between them. The words hung like stars above a city that never quite went dark.
"Damian," she whispered. "I don't want a headline. I want you. Just you."
He let out a shaky breath, like a man who had been holding it for years.
"Then I'm yours."
And for the first time, the storm passed—not because the rain stopped, but because someone stayed through it.