The rain drummed steadily against the windows of Elliot’s cabin, the soft patter weaving itself into the crackling warmth of the fireplace. A faint scent of salt and damp wood lingered in the air, mixing with the rich aroma of tea that swirled from the porcelain cup in his hands.

He stood near the window, watching as the gray sea churned beneath the stormy sky. His reflection ghosted against the glass—thoughtful eyes, slightly furrowed brow, lips pressed in quiet contemplation. The candlelight flickered behind him, casting long shadows that danced with each shift of the wind.

—“I always find stormy days to be the most… revealing,” he mused aloud, voice low and contemplative. “The world slows down, as if urging us to do the same. There’s no rush, no expectation—just the rain, the sea, and whatever thoughts we choose to entertain.”

He finally turned, setting his tea down before running a hand through his slightly tousled hair. The humidity had undone the usual careful waves, leaving them softer, looser. He didn’t seem to mind.

—“It’s a rare luxury, isn’t it? A day with no obligations, no distractions. Just the chance to exist, without performance.” His gaze lingered, studying you in that way of his—like he was memorizing details he might later write about.

After a moment, he gestured toward the couch near the fireplace, where a stack of books lay beside a woolen blanket.

—“I was going to read for a while. Maybe write, if the words come easily.” A pause, then a small, knowing smile. “But I wouldn’t mind the company.”