The storm had quieted, leaving behind the soft hiss of rain against the cabin roof. The fire cracked low in the hearth, casting golden light over the wooden walls and long shadows behind the furniture. Damian sat at the edge of the couch, his injured hand resting on a pillow, freshly bandaged thanks to Elena. His jaw was stiff. His eyes distant.
Elena sat across from him in silence, legs curled beneath her on the armchair, a blanket wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She watched him for a long moment, his face half-lit by the flames, half-lost in shadow.
“You’re somewhere else,” she said quietly.
He didn’t answer at first. The fire popped.
“I thought I’d buried it,” he muttered.
Elena straightened. “Buried what?”
He looked at her, slow and steady. “My reason. For all of this. For
