The weather had shifted by evening. Clouds thickened over the city like a brooding thought--dense, low, and reluctant to move on. The kind of gray that didn't just hover but settled into the bones, an ache before the first drop even fell. It was the sort of sky that made silence louder, the world a little dimmer, as if it were bracing itself for confession.
Nolan stood by the window, a cooling cup of coffee forgotten in his hand. His gaze drifted through the glass, following the slow descent of dusk as it blurred the edges of the buildings and swallowed the streetlights one by one. They flickered into life not with confidence, but like small voices asking permission to speak.
Then it came--the first soft tap of rain against the glass, a tentative knock. Another followed. Then more. The gentle rhythm gave way to something heavier, a sudden sheet of water cascading from the sky as if the clouds could no longer bear the weight of what they held. Cleansing. Violent. Insistent.
He liked the rain. He always had.
It was honest in a way most things weren't. It stripped the city bare--washed away the practiced faces, the curated lives. Beneath umbrellas and soaked shoes, people moved with a rawness they rarely allowed. The rain disrupted things, made people pause. And in that pause, there was truth.
Nolan lived for those pauses.
Especially now.
Then came the knock. Three taps. A rhythm not just heard, but known.
He didn't need to ask who it was.
When he opened the door, Isabelle stood there, shawl clutched tightly around her shoulders. Her hair was damp, curling slightly at the temples like smoke rising off cooled skin. Her cheeks were flushed, though whether from the cold or something else, he couldn't say. Her makeup had worn thin in places, revealing more of her than she usually let show.
"I hope this isn't too much," she said, voice barely above the whisper of rain behind her. "I couldn't sleep. The rain..."
She trailed off. Not needing to finish.
He stepped aside without a word. Her entrance felt rehearsed--not in a way that lacked sincerity, but in the way a familiar lie becomes comfortable. Not hesitant, but not at ease either. Like someone walking into a room they weren't supposed to be in--but had visited in dreams enough times to know the layout by heart.
She dropped her shawl onto the back of a chair, shaking loose droplets that darkened the fabric. Then she turned to him.
Her eyes lingered. Something heavy rimmed them--not makeup, though there was that too. No, it was something behind the eyes. Something watchful. Wary. Wanting.
"Wine?" Nolan offered, already moving to the cabinet.
She nodded. "Please."
He poured two glasses in silence. When he handed her one, their fingers touched. Barely. But this time, she didn't flinch.
They sat on the couch, side by side but slightly turned toward each other, as if pulled into orbit. Jazz hummed low from the speakers, soft and grainy like a memory you almost trust. Miles Davis--Nolan couldn't place the track, but he didn't need to. The music wasn't for seduction. Not overtly.
But beneath the surface?
That was something else entirely.
"You seem to like the quiet," Isabelle said after a moment, swirling the wine in her glass. It caught the dim light like blood caught in motion.
"It's the only time I can hear what I'm actually thinking," he replied, not looking at her.
She chuckled, low and surprised. "Careful. Thoughts get dangerous when they're too clear."
He turned toward her, not fast, just enough. "And what about yours?"
That made her pause. Her grip tightened on the stem of the glass. Just slightly. Just enough for him to see.
"Mine are already dangerous," she said.
The words didn't rush. They lingered between them like a dare. Neither spoke. The only sound was the low murmur of the music and the steady percussion of rain against the windows.
She leaned back, tucking one leg beneath her. Her sweater slipped, revealing a smooth shoulder, the strap of a black bra peeking like a secret. Nolan noticed. Not in a crude way--he noticed everything. Her posture. Her breath. The way she held herself like a woman holding off collapse with elegant, practiced defiance.
"Do you love him?" he asked, quietly.
The question broke something open. Not with violence, but with precision. A quiet scalpel.
She didn't react with shock. Didn't stiffen. Just stared into her glass for a moment, as if the answer might surface there.
"I don't think I know what that means anymore," she said.
