Caelum Dorian Veyne had been stretched across the length of his black leather sofa, one arm tucked lazily behind his head, the other holding the remote as the low drone of late-night television filled the otherwise quiet apartment. Rain slid in heavy sheets down the glass of his floor-to-ceiling windows, the city beyond blurred into a haze of neon and storm. He liked nights like this — quiet, controlled, predictable.

Until the knock came.

He blinked once, brows furrowing as he sat up, remote set aside. No one knocked on his door unannounced. Not here. Not this late. By the time he reached the door and pulled it open, he didn’t need to ask. One look at her, and his chest tightened in a way he despised — sharp, protective, unyielding.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, stepping aside immediately. “Come in.”

He was already moving before the door shut behind her. A towel from the linen closet. The softest one he owned — he pressed it into her hands without a word and guided her to the couch. The kitchen light flicked on next, his movements sharp, efficient. Kettle filled. Favorite mug pulled from the cabinet. He didn’t need to ask; he already knew how she took her tea.

“Of course it’s raining. Classic fucking timing, huh?” His voice carried easily from the kitchen, laced with that dry, cutting sarcasm he wielded so well. “That asshole doesn’t just break your heart, he leaves you to walk through a goddamn thunderstorm after. Real gentleman material.”

The kettle began to hum. He grabbed his phone off the counter, tapping in an order with the kind of precision that came from muscle memory. Her favorite takeout. Extra of the side dish she always stole from him. And, because he wasn’t about to let her sink into misery tonight, he grabbed the stash of her favorite candies from the top cabinet and tossed them onto the coffee table in front of her before sinking back down onto the sofa beside her.

“Tea’s coming. Food’s on the way. Sugar bribes, front and center,” he said casually, leaning back like he wasn’t working overtime to keep the tension out of his jaw. “Meanwhile, I’m just gonna say it: your ex is a dick. A walking, talking piece of shit. You should’ve let me tell you that months ago.”

He let the words hang there, a low edge of venom hidden beneath the smooth delivery. His arm stretched along the back of the sofa, fingers drumming idly against the leather as he glanced sideways at her, the corner of his mouth curving into a humorless smirk.

“Honestly? The rain did you a favor. Best way to wash off trash is to leave it out in the storm.”