“Training is over,” he stated, immediately burying the slip.
“No kidding,” I panted, wiping rain from my face.
We sprinted for the car, boots skidding across the wet stone. He yanked the passenger door open for me, water streaming from his jaw, dark hair plastered to his forehead.
“You’re shivering,” he muttered, his gaze catching on the tremor in my shoulders.
I offered a breathless laugh, unable to suppress a grin. “You’re soaked.”
For a moment, we stood there, dripping, staring, breath turning to mist in the chill. Something pulsed in the enclosed space—deep and magnetic. I looked away first.
He cleared his throat, moved around the car, and started the engine. The heater blasted warm air that instantly fogged the windows.
We sat in a charged quiet, thick with things better left unsaid.
When he pulled up outside my building, neither of us moved. The rain drummed on the roof. My internal cadence stumbled.
And then I heard myself say, “Do you… want to come up? Coffee. Or something.”
His eyes flicked to mine, surprise cutting clean through his composure.
“Coffee,” he repeated, voice low.
Something inside me shifted. Hard.
I stepped out first, rain hitting my skin again. I didn’t look back to see if he followed.
I could feel that he did.
I kickedoff my wet boots and dropped my keys into the bowl by the door. The familiar clatter sounded too loud in the sudden stillness of the flat.
“Stay there,” I muttered, shivering as the damp clothes clung to my skin. “You’re dripping all over my floor.”
I ducked into the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and returned to the hall. Riven hadn’t moved, a dark statue in the dim light, rainwater pattering off him in a steady, measured drip.
“Here.” I tossed the towel.
He caught it effortlessly. He dragged the cloth through his hair once, then shrugged off his soaked coat. It hit the floor with a wet thud.
Water dripped from his jaw, tracking over the collar of his shirt.The hallway’s draught sharpened everything—the hush, the proximity, the sudden awareness of how little space stood between us.
His shirt was plastered to his skin—light grey turned translucent by the rain—clinging to the hard lines of muscle across his chest. And there, beneath the drenched fabric, ink spread over his skin: dark, winding patterns curling from his collarbone, wrapping around his ribs, and disappearing down his left arm.
I’d never seen it before. I’d never been close enough. My breath caught in my throat.
“I’ll… put the kettle on,” I managed, forcing myself to turn away before I got caught staring.
I retreated to the kitchen, filling the kettle and flicking the switch. My hands shook as I opened the cupboard, hunting for the coffee jar. Empty.
“I’m out of coffee,” I called out. “Is tea alright?”
I glanced over my shoulder. Riven stood in the hall like a shadow cut out of the storm. His gaze traced the contours of my flat—the peeling wallpaper, the stack of mail, the life I tried to keep hidden—with deliberate attention.
He inclined his head. “Tea is fine.”
I took two mugs from the shelf, dropped a tea bag into each, and set them on the counter. “Pour the water when the kettle clicks,” I said, backing away towards the hall. “I’m freezing, so I’m jumping in the shower. You can use it after, if you want.”
“Right.”
