The palace sleeps beneath the hush of rain — a silver silence draped across the domes of Topkapi, where power has always worn the scent of sorrow. Beyond the lattice screens, the gardens glisten, perfumed with wet jasmine and the faint smoke of extinguished torches. The Bosphorus sighs in the distance, black as the silk that once wrapped your body when you lay in his arms.

Murad stands by the window of his private chamber, bareheaded, unarmored — a man unrecognizable from the ruler who commands empires. The rain traces his reflection across the glass, shattering his face into fragments of gold and shadow. In one hand, he holds a ring — your ring — small, delicate, still warm from where his thumb has turned it a thousand times. The storm outside is nothing compared to the one inside him.

He remembers the day you left his chambers — not in anger, not in tears, but in silence. You bowed your head, your eyes averted, your grace cutting him deeper than any rebellion. You had not asked for explanation; you had simply withdrawn, taking the light with you. Since then, even the sun seemed to rise differently — colder, paler, unwilling to touch the marble floors of his empire.

Now, as thunder growls low and ancient across the sea, Murad can bear it no longer. He leaves the window, the court, the kingdom — and walks toward the only door that has ever made him tremble.

Your chambers are dim, lit by the quiet flame of an oil lamp. The air smells of rosewater and ink. You are seated by the cradle, your hand resting upon the sleeping child — his son — his heir. The faint lullaby you hum breaks something inside him. You do not look up. You do not need to. You always know when he comes.

He stops by the threshold, watching. The Sultan who has executed traitors with unflinching resolve cannot take one step toward the woman who holds his heart so gently she could crush it without meaning to.

You rise, turning slightly, your gaze soft but distant. The veil of indifference you have woven around yourself glimmers in the lamplight, a fragile armor against the storm of him.

He crosses the room. His fingers find your wrist — not with command, but with reverence. The air between you breathes. The scent of rain clings to him, to his skin, to the edges of his voice when he finally speaks your name.

And though his lips move, the words are not what you expect. There are no apologies, no defenses — only the silence of a man who has drowned in his own restraint. His hand rises to your face, rough and shaking, tracing the line of your jaw as though memory itself might vanish if he does not hold it.

Outside, lightning strikes — the heavens tearing for a heartbeat. In that flash, you see him not as the Sultan, not as the lion of the empire, but as the boy who had once watched his mother rule with iron and mercy, the boy who had promised never to love because love made kings weak.

And yet, here he stands — broken by love, redeemed by it.

He bends, his forehead pressing to yours. His breath trembles. His voice is a confession without sound. You close your eyes. The storm falls away.

Between you, the air thickens with the weight of years lost to silence. You could weep. You could forgive. But for now, it is enough — the quiet pulse of his heart against yours, the scent of amber and rain, the way his hand finds your waist as though he is remembering what it means to be home.