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She repeated it, over and over, until his breathing slowed, until his eyes could actually see her. Then she wiped the rain from his brow, her hand trembling with cold.

"You mad, impossible man. What are you doing here?"

He coughed, words rough. "Looking—for—you."

"You were not meant to." She wanted to shake him. "You said⁠—"

"I know what I said." The words cracked like glass, but he tried again. "I know."

The wind slackened for a moment. She watched his face come back from the edge, the storm within him receding just enough to make room for the outer one.

"We must get back," she said, voice raw. "We will freeze if we stay."

He nodded, but when he tried to stand, his legs failed him. She got her shoulder under his arm, bracing him as they staggered toward the break in the trees. Her own legs nearly buckled under the weight.

"You are heavier than you look," she muttered.

He managed a grunt. "All muscle and regret."

She barked a laugh so sharp it hurt. "You absolute idiot."

They made the last hundred yards with the wind at their backs. Adelaide caught sight of the horses tied, barely, to a low branch, both wild-eyed and pawing the ground. Julian collapsed beside the nearest, his hands shaking so badly he couldn't work the reins. She did it for him, speaking softly to the stallion until it calmed enough for him to climb up.

She swung into her own saddle, hands nearly useless from cold. The ride back was a blur—mud, wind, flashes of lightning that made the world strobe in blue and white. Julian slumped forward in the saddle, but every time she checked, he was still with her, still clutching the reins, knuckles a dead white.

They reached the edge of the city after an eternity. Rain hammered down in sheets, the streets running with water. The houses of Mayfair loomed ahead, windows alight, oblivious to anything beyond their own golden warmth.

At the threshold of Ravensmere, she slid from the horse and nearly fell. Julian dismounted beside her, legs unsteady, but he caught her arm and steadied her.

She rounded on him, every nerve vibrating with anger and something else. "You said you wanted nothing from me. So why, in God's name, did you come?"

He stood there, rain streaming from his hair, face battered by cold and feeling. He stared at her, and for once, he did not run from the question.

"Because I have spent thirteen years living with the memory of one storm," he said, the words heavy as stone. "And I realized I could not survive another."

It knocked the breath from her.

He stepped forward. "I told myself I would never need anyone. That I could fill the void with work, travel, endless projects⁠—"

She cut him off, voice trembling. "And did it work?"

He shook his head. "No. It did not."

Then he reached for her, hands cupping her face with a desperation that left no doubt. His mouth crashed against hers—rough, bruising, the taste of rain and panic and grief. She met him in the middle, fingers fisted in his hair, pulling him closer because the alternative was to fall apart entirely.

He kissed her as though she were breath itself, as though if he let go she might dissolve with the wind. She returned it, giving every ounce of fury and longing she had locked away for months, years, maybe her whole life.

His hand slid to her waist, gripping tight enough to leave bruises. When he finally broke away, it was with a choked sound, half-laugh, half-sob.

She was shaking all over. He started to pull her in again, but his whole body went rigid—then he jerked back as though struck. A shadow crossed his face, cold and deep as the winter sky. He let her go.

"Forgive me," he said, voice hoarse and wrong. "I⁠—"

He could not finish. He turned and walked into the house, boots leaving trails of mud and water across the marble. The door slammed behind him.

Adelaide stood alone in the storm, hand pressed to her lips, rain plastering her hair to her scalp. She wanted to chase after him, to shake him until the guilt left his bones, but her legs refused to move.

Instead, she remained on the step, rain running down her cheeks and into her mouth, not sure if she was drowning or breathing for the first time.