Elena

The sky over Long Island cracks open in one violent flash of lightning.

The charity ball ended early, roads closed, and the only safe option — according to Adrian — was to drive me to the Volkov Estate for the night.

Of course Luca was driving.

Of course the universe hates me.

Neither of us spoke on the way here.

Silence was safer than all the things waiting to be said.

Now we’re inside his estate — marble, glass, echoing quiet — and the storm beats against the windows like something wild trying to get in.

Luca hands me a towel to dry my hair, careful not to touch my fingers.

He’s always careful when he’s most dangerous.

“You can have the guest room,” he says, voice rough from restraint.

“You don’t need to host me. I can call—”

“No.” He cuts me off instantly. “You’re not leaving in this weather.”

Not an order — a fear.

He turns away before I can read more.

A power outage plunges the entire house into darkness.

We speak at the same time.

“Stay here.”

“Don’t move.”

We both freeze.

A beat of silence.

A heartbeat of memories.

He finds candles, lights them one by one — golden halos around him, shadow sculpting his jaw, his mouth, his eyes.

It’s unfair how beautiful he is.

We sit on opposite ends of the couch.

Opposites in every way.

But the storm doesn’t care.

Rain slams the windows. Wind howls. Thunder shakes the walls.

It sounds exactly like the night I told him I loved him — five years ago — and he walked away.

He must have remembered too, because he whispers, almost to himself:

“You shouldn’t be here with me.”

I swallow. “But I am.”

His gaze snaps to mine, silver, raw.

“I ruin everything I touch, Elena.”

“That’s what cowards say.”

Lightning flashes — and something inside him snaps.

He moves before thinking — not to touch me, but to stand up and walk away.

But I catch his wrist.

“Stop running from me.”

His breath stutters — he feels it too — the heat under the skin, the electricity between us.

“You don’t understand,” he says, voice fractured. “Loving someone gets them killed.”

And there it is — the real fear.

He’s not afraid of loving.

He’s afraid of surviving the love.

I stand, stepping closer until the only space between us is memory.

“I’m not fragile,” I whisper.

“No. You’re precious,” he says — the words like glass shattering. “And if anything happened to you because of me—”

“Then let me decide whether I want to take that risk.”

His chest rises sharply.

For a moment, we just breathe each other in.

The storm softens — or maybe it’s the quiet between us that grows louder.

He reaches up — so slowly, as if asking fate for permission — and brushes a raindrop from my cheek.

Except it’s not a raindrop.

It’s a tear.

“Elena…” he breathes, tortured. “You’re crying.”

I laugh, but it tastes like pain. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t want you.”

His eyes close — agony — longing — hunger.

Then he touches my face with both hands, like I’m something holy and he’s something ruined.

And for three seconds — just three — we stand forehead to forehead, breathing the same air, the same memories, the same unfinished love.

He is going to kiss me. I can feel it.

His thumb grazes my bottom lip — the softest, most dangerous touch I’ve ever known.

But then—

Thunder explodes.

The lights flicker back on.

And reality returns like a slap.

He steps back so fast it hurts.

“Elena, go to bed,” he says, voice shredded, control collapsing.

“Luca—”

“Now,” he forces out. “Before I do something I can’t take back.”

Something in me bleeds.

Something in him breaks.

I walk to the guest room.

He stays frozen in the living room, fists clenched, jaw locked, eyes on the floor — as if the carpet is the only thing keeping him from running to me.

And the storm outside finally calms.

But the one inside us is only beginning.