The world outside had long dissolved into a symphony of rain against the windowpanes—a soft, steady percussion that seemed to cradle us in its arms.
Inside, a different kind of quiet reigned: not silence, but stillness, profound and eloquent in its own right. Azalea's breath, warm and even against my neck, was the only rhythm I cared to follow—like a tide lapping against the tumultuous shores of my heart.
Her arm, heavy with comfort, draped over my waist, anchoring me to a fleeting sense of safety. For a moment, this fragile world felt entirely ours.
