The Hearth and the Storm

The scent of old wood and beeswax clung to the air in the small cottage, a comforting embrace that felt a universe away from the gilded halls of Crestmont. Outside, the wind howled, lashing rain against the windowpanes like a desperate plea, but inside, a fragile peace had settled. Chloe traced the rim of her mug, the warmth of the herbal tea seeping into her chilled fingers. Across the worn oak table, Logan watched her, his usual icy facade softened by the flickering lamplight.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the stillness.

Chloe offered a small smile. “Just… thinking.”