The rain was relentless—sheets of it blurring the front of the Cartwright estate into watery streaks of gold and shadow. Elias stood hunched at the front door, breath fogging the air, dark hair plastered to his forehead, clothes soaked through and clinging to his skin like regret.

He cursed under his breath.

No key.

Of course. In his rush to leave for the party, to escape the noise, the lights, the constant performance of being Elias Cartwright—the one who had it all together—he’d left the one thing he needed most sitting on his nightstand. Now he stood dripping onto the marble doorstep like some guilt-ridden ghost.

Just as he considered whether to call someone—or more likely, sleep in the garden like a romanticized idiot—the heavy oak door creaked open.

And there she stood.

Clara.

Backlit by the warm amber glow of the hallway, she looked like something out of a dream he hadn’t earned. Her long, silvery-blonde hair was braided over one shoulder, wisps escaping and curling gently at her temples. Her storm-grey eyes—sharp, knowing—locked onto his the second the door opened. She wore a loose forest green shirt that softened her features but did nothing to hide the disapproval tightening her jaw.

Her arms crossed slowly. Deliberately.

"You forgot something," she said coolly

He blinked, water dripping from his lashes. “Yeah.”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“It died.”

“I figured.” Her voice wasn’t harsh, but it wasn’t kind either. Just... Britishly restrained.

Silence stretched between them, thick as the humidity curling off his soaked shirt. He wanted to look away, but didn’t. Couldn’t.

Clara’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes flicked once over him—his drenched clothes, his bare arms, the slight tremble in his fingers from the cold.

“How long have you been out here?”

“Ten minutes,” he lied.

She sighed—quiet, sharp—and stepped back without a word, leaving the door open behind her.

Elias stepped in slowly, rainwater pooling beneath his shoes on the marble floor. The warmth of the house hit him like shame. He ran a hand through his wet hair, drops flinging off and pattering on the tile.

“You were at the Whitbay party, weren’t you?” she asked as she closed the door. “Adrian mentioned it. Said you told your parents you weren’t going.”

He didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

Clara turned toward him again, voice low. “You know, I’m not your mother. I’m not here to lecture you. But your siblings look up to you like you’re some kind of... North Star. You don’t just vanish on a weekend when Ava’s been crying all night and Lucy’s sick.”

He flinched. Not visibly—but enough for her to notice. She always noticed.

“I needed out,” he muttered finally.

“I get that,” she said, softer now. “But you don’t get to disappear, Elias. Not from them.”

He looked up, and for a second his mask cracked. The arrogance, the cool indifference—all of it slipped.

“I didn’t disappear,” he said. “I just forgot how to breathe in this house.”

She paused.

It was the most honest thing he’d said in weeks.

Her eyes studied him, and something in them shifted. Her arms dropped to her sides. The fight drained out of her. She took a step forward.

"You’re freezing."

“I’m fine.”

“You’re an idiot.”

She disappeared into the hallway, came back with a towel. Tossed it at his chest. He caught it, barely.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, pressing it to his face.

She didn’t speak for a while. Just stood there, arms loose at her sides now, braid still damp at the ends from whatever early-morning chores she’d done before hearing him fumble at the door.

“Elias,” she said finally. “You can’t keep doing this. Running.”

“I’m not running.”

“Yes,” she said, “you are. And you’re not even good at it.”

He almost laughed. Almost.