The rain started after midnight.
Not loud, just steady enough to make the city hum softer.
I couldn't sleep. Too much caffeine, too many thoughts. I left the bed, made tea, and found myself standing by the kitchen window, watching the streetlights turn silver.
Callisto was already there.
He didn't move when I entered. One hand rested on a glass of water, the other pressed to his temple, like he'd been thinking too hard.
"Insomnia, love?" I asked.
He glanced at me. "Work."
"At midnight?"
"Deadlines don't respect time zones."
I sipped my tea. "Do you ever stop?"
"Stopping feels inefficient."
I rolled my eyes. "Of course it does."
He didn't react, but something in his posture shifted.
Less stiff, maybe tired.
The silence stretched.
Not awkward, not cold. Just there.
I leaned against the counter. "Do you ever regret any of it?"
He looked at me. "Define 'it.'"
"This." I waved a hand.
"The deal. The marriage. Pretending."
He thought for a moment. "No."
"None?"
"No."
"That's impressive. Or terrifying."
He met my eyes. "You?"
"I don't regret it," I said slowly.
"I just forget why I agreed sometimes."
He tilted his head. "You needed it."
"I did. But need and want are different."
He nodded once, as if he understood, then went quiet again.
The lights flickered—once, twice—and then everything went black.
"Oh, great," I muttered. "Perfect timing."
He sighed. "Generator?"
"Probably dead."
We stood in the dark, surrounded by rain and distant thunder.
I reached for my phone and switched on the flashlight.
The beam cut across his face, sharp lines softened by shadow.
Without the usual lighting, he looked younger.
Less CEO, more… human.
"Stop staring," he said.
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"Was not."
His mouth twitched. "You're bad at lying."
"I've heard that before."
He opened his mouth, then didn't speak, instead moving to the window and pulling the curtain aside. The street below glowed with faint emergency lights.
"It's quiet," he said.
"You say that like it's strange."
"It is. This city doesn't stop."
"Maybe it's allowed a break."
"Maybe."
I sat on the floor, tea still warm in my hands. "Do you ever miss normal things?"
He turned. "Such as?"
"Bad coffee. Cheap dinners. People who text just to ask how you are."
He leaned against the counter again.
"No one does that to me."
"That doesn't surprise me."
He raised a brow. "Why not?"
"Because you don't let them."
He looked away, out the window.
"It's easier that way."
"Easier isn't always better."
"Sometimes it is."
"Sounds lonely."
He didn't answer.
After a while, I said, "I used to think grief was loud."
He looked at me.
"It's not," I said. "It's quiet. Like this. It's in the pauses."
He watched me. "You talk about it like it's still happening."
"Because it is."
"Your grandmother."
"Yeah."
"She was important to you."
"She was everything."
He nodded. "Then you're lucky."
"Lucky?"
"To have had something that real. Even if it ended."
That caught me off guard.
I didn't answer right away. "You sound like you've lost something too."
"Everyone does," he said. "Some just hide it better."
The flashlight flickered again, then died. Total darkness.
For a long moment, all I could hear was the rain—and our breathing.
"Do you ever stop thinking?" I asked quietly.
"No."
"I see."
"You?"
"Sometimes. Usually when I'm doing something stupid."
He laughed under his breath.
Small. Real.
When the power came back, the lights hummed to life.
We both blinked against the sudden brightness.
He straightened, back to his composed self.
I dusted my legs, standing.
"Well. That was… deep."
He half-smiled. "It was honest."
"I'll try not to hold it against you."
"Do that."
I turned to leave, but he said softly, "Alexandra."
"Yeah?"
He hesitated. "You don't have to pretend with me."
It wasn't soft.
Not romantic.
Just… truth that hit hard.
I met his gaze. "That goes both ways."
He nodded once. "Goodnight, love."
"Goodnight."
Back in my room, sitting on the edge of the bed, I listened to the rain.
The house felt different.
Still quiet, but not empty.
For the first time since this marriage started, I didn't feel like I was borrowing space.
I felt seen, not as a lawyer, or a contract, or a problem.
But as a person.
That was somehow more terrifying than the silence had ever been.