Rain fell like a hush upon Halebourne, soft and uninterrupted, as though the sky itself had been lulled into melancholy.
Aurelius had not returned to school that morning.
Nor the next.
Nor the day after that.
Desdemona sat at her usual place by the window in the reading alcove, her eyes flickering toward the empty seat across from her. She told herself he was simply absent—delayed, perhaps, caught in some errand or erratic bout of inspiration. But the ache in her chest told her something different.
She hadn't seen Delphine for two days—no sign of her at the school gates when she came to collect her brother Milo. No cheerful greetings, no playful stories. Just quiet absence.
And then, on the third afternoon, Desdemona spotted her—small, solemn, standing beneath the awning of the school gate.
Delphine didn't run up to her as usual, nor did she speak in her familiar lilting voice. Instead, she looked up at Desdemona, her eyes round and tired.
"Hello, Delphine," Desdemona said gently. "How are you? Where's Milo? Are you going home now?"
Delphine hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I'm… not going home yet."
"Is something wrong?" Desdemona asked, concern tightening her chest.
Delphine's voice was quiet, almost trembling. "Would you like to come with me—to the hospital?"
Desdemona's breath caught. She knew then something was wrong. Her heart quickened, a mix of fear and hope stirring inside her.
"I… yes," she said softly.
Just then, Milo came running up, cheeks flushed from play but eyes wide as he spotted Desdemona. "Dezzie!" he called out, skidding to a stop beside them.
Delphine took Milo's hand in hers, and together, the three of them stepped into the soft rain. Under a shared umbrella, Delphine's grip on Desdemona's hand tightened.
"He's very sick," Delphine whispered as they passed the edge of the gardens. "The fever wouldn't go. Mama said he was talking in his sleep—saying strange things. They took him to the hospital yesterday."
Desdemona's throat tightened.
They said nothing more for the rest of the walk, only the soft patter of rain keeping them company as they made their way through the mist-veiled streets.
By the time they reached the hospital, her skirts were damp at the hem, and her heart was a storm of fear and something deeper—something wordless.
She didn't know what she would say.
She only knew she had to be there.
The scent of antiseptic and wilted flowers filled the air as they stepped into the whitewashed halls. The floor was too clean, too quiet. Desdemona clutched a book with a worn paperback in her hands—the one she'd meant to give him weeks ago.
Delphine spotted her mother first and broke into a quiet run, Milo close behind. Desdemona followed at a slower pace, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs.
Mrs. Calloway stood just beyond the entrance to the ward, her figure straight despite the weariness in her eyes. She bent to gather Delphine into her arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her daughter's rain-damp hair.
When she looked up and saw Desdemona, she offered a gentle, searching smile.
"You must be Desdemona," she said softly.
Des nodded, heart beating loud in her ears. "Yes, ma'am."
"He's spoken of you," Mrs. Calloway said. "Often." Her voice wavered a little, touched with something between gratitude and concern. "He's just down this hall. Second door on the right."
"I—thank you."
"I'll stay with the children," the woman added. "Take your time."
Desdemona managed a quiet thank-you and turned, her steps soft against the tile.
Room 209. The number was small, painted in pale brass. Her fingers hovered near the handle.
She didn't know what she would find.
But she opened the door anyway.
He was there—pale against the crisp sheets, eyes closed, dark lashes fanned like ink across his cheeks. He looked thinner. Fragile. A version of him she had never seen before.
She stood at the threshold for what felt like hours.
Then his eyes opened.
"…Des?" His voice was a rasp, a breath.
She stepped inside, slowly, uncertainly. "You look… terrible."
His lips curved faintly. "Good. I was worried I might still look handsome."
She almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, She placed the book beside his pillow with gentle care. The fabric of her dress was still damp from the rain, clinging at the hem and sleeves. A lock of her hair, slightly curled from the mist, had fallen against her cheek. She pushed it back absently, her eyes not leaving his face.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he let out a long breath, heavy and slow, as if it weighed down his whole body. His gaze drifted toward the window, where raindrops traced soft paths along the glass.
"You shouldn't be sad," she said softly. "You'll get better soon."
He shook his head slightly, a bitter smile touching his lips. "It's not sadness," he murmured. "I hate feeling this kind of weakness — the kind I can't control."
In his mind, he saw the worlds he created in his books, where every line, every fate was his to command. But here, now, in this silent room, he felt the stark truth: in the real world, he held no such power.
"You're not weak," she whispered.
His gaze returned to her—and in it, something unguarded, something raw.
"Then why does it feel like I keep falling apart?"
She reached out without thinking, brushing a lock of hair from his brow. Her fingers lingered, warm against his cold skin.
"You don't have to hold everything up all the time," she said. "Even the bravest need a moment to catch their breath." For a moment, silence passed between them like breath.
Then he leaned forward.
So did she.
It happened not like thunder, but like mist. Slowly. Inevitably.
Their lips met—hesitant, searching, soft. His hand found hers, trembling. Her heart climbed into her throat.
The kiss was not perfect.
It was real.
It was everything.
Two weeks later, the sky had cleared and Aurelius was home again.
There was color in his cheeks once more. He walked steadier. Laughed more easily. But something had changed.
There were glances now—shy, stolen things that burned too long. There were touches, brief and feather-light. There was silence that said more than words ever could.
And then there was his mother's birthday.
"You should bring your new girlfriend," she said lightly, stirring the icing of a cake with great ceremony.
Aurelius turned a shade of crimson he hadn't known his skin could reach. "She's not—she's… we're not…"
His mother smiled knowingly. "Then invite your not-girlfriend."
Desdemona arrived just as the evening sun painted the windows in gold. She wore a pale blue dress, simple yet lovely, and carried a small bouquet of wildflowers that she insisted she picked herself.
"You look beautiful," he blurted before he could stop himself.
Her eyes softened. "And you look like you got better."
He offered her his arm, and they walked.
They talked of nothing and everything. Of books, of childhood, of favourite sweets and silly stories. The warmth between them was no longer fragile—it was comfortable, familiar.
But beneath it, a tremble of something unspoken still lingered.
Later, they slipped away from the noise and into his room. It was unusually neat—everything carefully arranged, as if he had prepared it for her visit. Papers were stacked, surfaces cleared.
He had hidden his ink, quill, and scattered sheets carefully out of sight. Yet as they entered, a small folded note lay on the floor, half-hidden beneath a chair—one of WildOrchid's notes, accidentally dropped when he was tidying up.
He bent quickly and picked it up, fingers brushing the delicate paper.
She noticed. "What's that?" she asked, eyes curious.
He smiled faintly, a little too quickly. "Oh? Just one of Delphine's drawings," he said, hiding the note behind his back.
She raised an eyebrow. "Delphine's drawings? She's quite the artist, isn't she? Though I can't say I've seen anything quite so… neat before."
He chuckled softly. "She likes to surprise us."
A comfortable silence settled. She looked around the room, then back at him. "It's funny how tidy you keep this place. I always imagined… well, I don't know what I imagined, but not this."
He shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes. "Maybe I'm better at hiding my messes."
She laughed, a clear, light sound. "Glad I get to see the clean side of you."
He stepped a little closer, voice lowering. "There's a lot about me you haven't seen."
She smiled softly, a flicker of something tender in her gaze. "Maybe I'm not in a hurry to see it all."
He smiled back, heart quickening.
Then, as if the words dissolved the last walls between them, he reached out gently, and their lips met—soft, hesitant, but filled with a promise neither dared speak aloud.
Though the kiss was warm and full of a quiet passion that left his heart pounding, a heavy weight settled in his chest. He felt a pang of guilt for hiding the truth from her—keeping the secret of being the author of the book she loved so dearly. What if, once she knew, everything between them would change? Would she still see him the same way, or would the magic of their connection fade? The thought made him uneasy, but for now, he stayed silent, caught between hope and fear.