The rain tapped softly against the tall, iron-framed windows of Ace's secluded house, nestled far beyond the reach of the city's lights. Shadows clung to the walls like secrets, and the house smelled faintly of old books and smoke. Midnight had come and gone, but Ace hadn't moved from his spot by the window, a glass of dark bourbon resting in his hand like an old friend.
Then came the knock.
It was soft, almost hesitant. Once. Then again.
Ace set the glass down. He didn't rush. He never did. With every step across the creaking floorboards, he listened for signs—was it a threat, a mistake, or fate finally catching up to him?
When he opened the door, she was standing there. Drenched, eyes wide, trembling—not from the cold, but something deeper. Fear, maybe. Or something worse.
"Sarah," he said, her name tasting like memory.
"You said I could come if I had nowhere else."
He stepped aside without a word.
The door closed behind her, sealing them in together with the storm.