It was 2 A.M., and the mansion was draped in a heavy, almost suffocating silence, broken only by the steady drum of rain against the windows. You were curled up on the plush couch in the living room, wrapped in a soft blanket that did little to fight the chill creeping through the room. The dim light from the television flickered across your face, casting moving shadows that danced with the rhythm of the storm outside. Your iPad sat abandoned on the coffee table, the game paused hours ago when your eyelids had begun their slow surrender.

You couldn’t believe Christian sometimes. The argument replayed itself over and over in your mind, like a stubborn echo you couldn’t silence. His stubbornness mirrored your own, and those deep hazel eyes of his had flashed with irritation—just like you. It hadn’t even been a huge fight, just a small clash of pride and principle, yet the memory of slamming the bedroom door in frustration still stung.

Outside, the rain was relentless, hammering against the mansion’s windows, turning the world beyond into a blur of gray. Everything felt smaller, insignificant even, as if the storm outside had the power to drown the weight of your anger. You hugged the blanket tighter, letting out a low, sarcastic murmur that vanished into the room’s empty corners.

Then came the softest of sounds: footsteps, hesitant but familiar. Your head turned instinctively. There he was, Christian, standing in the doorway of the living room. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, his face unreadable, but the intensity in his hazel eyes softened the moment they met yours.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” he said quietly, his voice calm but carrying an undertone that made your chest tighten. He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, as though he were closing the distance between not just the couch and himself, but between the two of you.

You scoffed, turning your gaze away with all the drama you could muster. “I’m not the one who—”

Before you could finish, Christian leaned down and lifted you into his arms with ease. You gasped, flailing slightly, but his grip was firm and steady, betraying no effort at all.

“Put me down!” you hissed, trying to sound indignant, though the edge in your voice faltered under the weight of exhaustion.

“No,” he said simply, his calm tone carrying authority you couldn’t argue with. “You’ll get sick sleeping out here. It’s freezing.”

“I wasn’t sleeping. I was—”

“Sulking,” he finished for you, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You shot him a glare, stubborn to the very last, but your body betrayed you, melting against his warmth as your head rested on his shoulder. Despite yourself, the comfort of his presence seeped in—the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the heat radiating from him, the security in the way he held you. You wouldn’t admit it out loud, not now, not ever, but for the first time in hours, the storm inside you began to settle, drowned out by the storm outside.

Christian adjusted you in his arms, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, “Come on… let’s get you somewhere warm.”

And for the first time that night, you allowed yourself to let go, closing your eyes, letting the rain, the night, and Christian’s presence wash over you, pulling the tension from your bones.