THE RAIN BETWEEN THEM
1175 Words
The rain came fast—angry, relentless, and unseasonably cold for spring. Bella ran through the courtyard, her shoes soaked and slipping on the cobblestones as the storm pelted the estate from all sides. She clutched her skirts, breathing hard, trying to get back inside before the downpour worsened.
She rounded the corner near the west wing’s greenhouse when she collided into something—someone—hard and warm.
“Careful!” a voice snapped.
Bella stumbled back, eyes wide, and gasped. It was him.
Damian.
He was drenched as well, having just returned from the stables. His tailored overcoat clung to his frame, water dripping from his tousled hair. His dark eyes pinned her like a dagger.
She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t see you.”
“You were running like the devil was chasing you,” he muttered, brushing rain from his sleeves. Then he paused. “You’re shivering.”
Bella straightened. “I’ll warm up quickly. I should get back to the laundry wing—”
He interrupted her, his tone gentler this time. “You’ll catch cold like that.”
Her surprise must have shown on her face because he sighed, removing his coat and draping it over her shoulders before she could protest.
Her hands froze at her sides. The coat was heavy, smelling of sandalwood, wet leather, and something else unmistakably him.
“I can’t wear this, sir,” she whispered, barely audible above the rain.
“You can and you will. Come.” He turned and began walking, not waiting for her to follow—but of course, she did.
They entered the side corridor of the estate, shoes squelching on the marble. Bella’s heart pounded as they climbed the narrow staircase leading to the unused guest parlor—a quiet space, away from both the staff and the Wycliffe family’s daily affairs.
Damian unlocked the door and pushed it open. The room had clearly been neglected. Dust coated the bookshelves, and the drapes sagged in the corners. But the hearth was intact.
He crossed the room, grabbed the iron poker, and began to stoke the fire.
Bella stood by the doorway, still in his coat, unsure if she was being punished or protected.
“You can sit,” he said over his shoulder. “It won’t kill you.”
She approached hesitantly and lowered herself into the edge of a winged chair. The warmth from the flames began to seep into her bones.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” she murmured.
“You’re not intruding.” He glanced back at her, his expression unreadable. “I just needed quiet. And apparently, so did you.”
Bella blinked. “I was only fetching blankets for the guest rooms. Then the storm started.”
“And yet, here you are. Caught beneath my roof again.”
That phrase. The way he said it. It lingered between them like fog on glass—neither clearing nor thickening, but always there.
⸻
Minutes passed in silence, except for the crackle of fire and the hum of rain on the windowpanes. Damian sat across from her now, legs crossed, shirt partially unbuttoned. Bella tried not to stare.
She failed.
“I used to come here when I was younger,” he said suddenly, his eyes fixed on the flames. “Before my mother died. This room was hers.”
Bella turned. “It’s beautiful, even like this.”
“She’d read here. Write letters. Drink scotch and listen to old jazz records when my father was away.” He chuckled darkly. “He hated the noise. Said it was beneath the dignity of Wycliffe blood.”
Bella frowned. “So she made noise anyway?”
He nodded. “Every chance she got.”
Bella smiled. She could almost see her—the strong, elegant woman Damian rarely spoke of.
“What happened to her?” she asked, then instantly regretted it. “I’m sorry, that’s not my place—”
“She died too young,” he interrupted, voice flat but not cruel. “Ovarian cancer. She kept it secret until it was too late. Thought silence made her stronger.”
Bella looked down at her hands. “Sometimes silence feels like the only armor we have.”
He studied her.
“You know about armor, don’t you?” he said softly.
She looked up, caught off guard by the gentleness in his tone.
“I suppose I do.”
“And yet, you let mine down.”
The words stunned her.
Damian stood and walked to the mantle, arms folded. “I didn’t know your name for almost a year. You were just the girl with the braid who cleaned the third-floor hall. Now… you’re everywhere.”
Bella stood too, unsure whether to defend herself or retreat.
“I didn’t mean to be,” she said, voice shaking. “If my presence is too much, I can ask to transfer wings. I never intended to—”
“Stop.” He turned sharply.
She froze.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one who…” he trailed off, running a hand through his damp hair. “I noticed you. That’s not your fault.”
Bella swallowed hard.
“I notice you too,” she whispered.
The silence that followed was thick with something unnamed—want, fear, and a fragile kind of truth.
⸻
Suddenly, lightning flashed outside. The room lit up in silver, followed by a bone-rattling c***k of thunder. Instinctively, Bella flinched and stepped closer to the hearth.
Damian crossed the space between them in two strides.
Without a word, he reached out and cupped the side of her face, brushing wet curls behind her ear. His thumb lingered along her cheekbone.
“You’re not beneath anything, Bella.”
Her breath caught.
“You think I don’t see you,” he continued. “But I do. Every day. I see your strength. Your silence. Your fire.”
The tears came before she could stop them. One slid down her cheek, trailing his thumb.
“I don’t know what this is,” she said hoarsely. “But I’m scared of it.”
He stepped even closer.
“So am I.”
The tension stretched thin between them, ready to snap. And in that breathless moment, she knew if she stayed, something would change forever.
But she didn’t move. Neither did he.
⸻
It was the sound of the housekeeper calling her name from downstairs that broke the spell.
Bella pulled away gently, chest heaving.
“I should go,” she whispered.
Damian didn’t stop her. He just stepped back, eyes clouded.
She slipped off his coat and handed it to him, their fingers brushing for a second too long.
“Thank you… for the fire,” she said.
He nodded.
As she walked out into the hallway, Bella didn’t know what terrified her more—the fact that her hands still trembled, or the fact that for once… she didn’t want them to stop.
- Writer
