The storm had rolled in without warning. Rain lashed the stained glass as Secondo stood in the arched hallway, watching through the tall window.

The sky was iron, bruised with clouds, and the trees beyond the garden writhed in the wind like things possessed.

He had no reason to be standing there. Not truly. But he knew she took her walks in the courtyard after vespers. Every night. Even when the sky threatened. Even when it was foolish.

And she was out there now.

He saw her — hooded, crossing the stones with her arms wrapped tight around herself, robes soaked to the knees. She wasn’t hurrying. Just enduring. As if the storm offered something she couldn’t find inside the Ministry walls. As if its rawness was preferable to silence.

She never flinched from discomfort — one of the many things about her that left him unsettled.

Secondo clenched his jaw and stepped away from the window.

Foolish girl.

By the time he reached the side corridor, she had entered through the opposite archway. Rainwater trailed behind her on the marble like threads of silver. She froze when she saw him — drenched, breathless, caught.

His robes were immaculate. Hers clung to her limbs, soaked through.

“I told you before,” he said, voice low but not unkind, “you are not to be out during weather like this.”

She bowed her head, murmuring something about not meaning to be out that long. Her voice was soft — not defensive, never afraid.

He hated how she never feared his temper. Hated how it made his anger feel… empty.

Secondo stepped closer. She smelled like rain and petrichor. Her hair stuck to her cheeks. There was something unholy about how lovely she looked like that — stripped of composure, eyes wide, silent, and there. Without thinking, he reached out and gently took her wrist.

Her skin was cold. Ice cold.

He exhaled through his nose. “You’ll fall ill.”

She met his gaze and shrugged softly, as if to say it was only rain.

“You are not just anyone.” The words came harsher than he intended, and he hated the truth they carried.

A beat of silence passed.

Then — slowly — he pulled his own cloak from his shoulders and placed it around hers. It swallowed her frame completely. She looked up at him, stunned.

She hadn’t asked for softness. That was the problem. That was why he gave it. He looked away. “Go to your quarters. Dry off. You’ll keep the cloak.”

She opened her mouth, hesitating, but he cut her off.

“I said keep it.”