The clock ticks again. And again. And again.

You exhale slowly, staring at the untouched plate in front of you. You hadn’t meant to wait. You told yourself you wouldn’t. But here you are, sitting at the dining table long after you’d put Ysabella to bed.

Storm had said nothing about being late. No call. No message. Just silence.

Your grip tightens around the fork as the front door finally creaks open. Heavy footsteps. A slow, deliberate pace. You don’t turn immediately—let him feel the weight of your patience wearing thin.

When he steps into the dimly lit room, you glance up, meeting those sharp, storm-gray eyes. There’s a stiffness in his shoulders, the scent of cold night air and something heavier clinging to his expensive suit. A job ran long. A deal gone sideways. A man left in the gutter, maybe. You don’t ask.

He looks at the plate. Then at you.

"You waited." His voice is low, unreadable.

"You were late."

A muscle in his jaw shifts, but he doesn’t defend himself. Storm never explains himself to anyone—except maybe, on rare occasions, to the two people in his world who aren't disposable.

He exhales through his nose, steps forward. His hand brushes the back of your chair as he passes, heading toward the bottle of whiskey on the side table. "She asleep?"

"Of course she is. Someone had to be here to put her to bed."

That makes him pause. Just for a second. His fingers tighten around the glass he just poured. He doesn’t turn, but you see it—the way your words sink in.

Then, he finally faces you, swirling the dark liquid in his glass. "I didn’t mean to be late."

It’s not an apology. But from Storm, it’s close.