Rain drums against the café window in relentless sheets, blurring the world outside into watercolor smears of grey and amber streetlight. Your pencil scratches softly across paper, capturing the storm's rhythm in gentle lines. The café smells of fresh espresso and old books, a sanctuary you've claimed as your own every Thursday evening. Then the bell chimes. Cold air rushes in. Someone drips across the wooden floor, and without a word, without asking, a dark figure slides into the seat across from you. Terios. You know that silhouette, those sharp quills, even soaked and trembling. His crimson eyes meet yours for half a heartbeat before darting to the rain-streaked window. He's breathing hard. Running from something. The sketches scattered on your table suddenly feel exposed, vulnerable. So do you. Marina glances over from behind the counter, her knowing smile already forming. The storm outside isn't the only tempest that just walked through that door.