Seraphine froze for a heartbeat, the request slipping between them like a whispered temptation. The moonlight caught the edge of her profile, softening the stern lines that duty had carved into her face.
Then, almost imperceptibly, her lips curved—and she stepped closer.
Callum's breath hitched. He stood planted, the gravel settling under his feet, as Seraphine raised a hand to his collar, then traced the line of his jaw with the back of her fingers.
"Are you certain?" she asked, voice low, almost gentle—a stark contrast to her usual command.
He nodded, eyes dark with earnest need.
Seraphine's lips met his with a taut, almost desperate hush. The world around them blurred—the hum of wind, the rustle of gravel—everything faded until there was only the press of her mouth on his.
Her hand tensed at the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as she deepened the kiss. Callum's breath hitched; his own hands found her hips, thumbs grazing the curve of her waist as he pulled her impossibly closer. Every nerve in his body ignited, drawn to the heat of her mouth, the soft slide of her tongue staking claim against his.
She answered with equal fire—her tongue slipping between his lips, tracing, probing, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest. His arms tightened, skin pressing skin, heart pounding so loudly he could feel it in his throat.
For a long, charged moment, they moved together: lips parting, teeth grazing, a delicious friction that left them both trembling. Seraphine's breath was warm against his, her body flush with the urgency they shared.
When she finally broke the kiss, it was slow—a lingering pull that left her lips ghosting over his. Callum didn't speak; he only nestled his head against her shoulder, chest heaving and senses aflame.
Seraphine offered no smile. "Come inside," she invited.
---
After that night, Sera wasn't able to go home for a week as her team needed special training for the upcoming shooting competition.
It was Sunday evening when she got home...
...Yet it was barely eight in the evening, but Sera stood walking in circles before the door. The skies over, wept like it was midnight. Rain slashed the windows of the Avienne estate in fierce gusts.
He wasn't home.
Again.
And she knew exactly where he was.
Without a word, she took an umbrella and her coat. No hesitation. No sighs. Just action. Ignoring Jonas' call to help.
She drove through the flooded city streets, headlights dimmed by sheets of rain. The road twisted through old business districts and faded parks, past closed cafés and streetlights flickering like ghosts.
She found him exactly where she thought he'd be.
That park.
The one Callum used to frequent with Dahlia. A small bench beneath a weather-stained statue. Once a place of quiet affection. Now a shrine of grief.
He was slumped on the bench, soaked through. A half-lit cigarette trembled in his wet fingers. He cursed the rain that wouldn't let his flame catch, cursed the lighter, cursed the sky—and perhaps, more than anything, cursed himself.
His tie was undone. His eyes were red. His words slurred in anger—pointless, broken anger.
Seraphine stepped out of the car, umbrella in hand.
The wind slapped her face, the rain soaked her boots, but her steps didn't falter. She walked across the puddled sidewalk until she stood right in front of him.
He didn't even notice her.
Not until she dropped the umbrella beside them—
—and slapped him. Hard. Across the face.
Callum blinked.
Then turned.
His swollen eyes narrowed, trying to focus. And when he did—when he recognized her—he laughed. A broken laughter with a hollow sound, like a child who'd fallen so hard he'd forgotten how to rise. And with that laughter came the tears.
"Sera?" he croaked, the name breaking.
Her heart cracked with him.
She showed neither pity nor anger. Yet it still cut deep. Not because he mourned another woman, but because he was utterly broken—by her. Raw. Unfiltered.
And she had been like him before. She understands.
Her lips quivered, but no words could stitch the grief woven into his bones. So she released everything—pride, fear, expectation—and knelt in the mud, letting the cold earth seep through her knees as she wrapped her arms around him.
Callum, like a child lost in a storm, sobbed against her shoulder. He didn't stifle it—he screamed and groaned, every jagged sound echoing through the night, startling passersby who hurried by under their umbrellas as if they'd seen nothing.
But Seraphine remained still.
She held him through it all.
She pressed a single, gentle kiss to the crown of his head. He didn't pull away. He didn't resist. Instead, he clung to her as though she were the only anchor in his unraveling world.
When his cries dwindled to a ragged whisper and his voice was gone, he never asked why she'd come. He never apologized—and neither did she.
Because sometimes pain speaks more clearly in silence than any words ever could.
Sometimes, it's simply about staying.
Even when it hurts.
Even when you're not the one they mourn.
And in that torrential moment, soaked through with heartbreak, Seraphine didn't need to be chosen.
She only wanted to be there.