The world felt too loud, too cruel, too close.
So Zayden took her somewhere silent.
The lakehouse.
Nestled between soft hills and golden trees, the lakehouse was the first place Elena saw color again after days of white hospital walls and whispered concerns.
Zayden opened the passenger door for her and helped her out gently, holding her like she was still fragile porcelain.
"You didn't have to bring me here," she murmured, her fingers still trembling as she clutched the soft cardigan he draped over her shoulders.
"I did," he said simply. "Because this is where you can breathe."
—
That evening, Elena stood barefoot in the kitchen, cutting strawberries while Zayden stirred pancake batter beside her. Flour dusted the counters. She was still weak, but laughter had returned in bits and pieces.
Zayden looked at her with a slight smirk. "You know, strawberries were my favorite... until you."
She rolled her eyes, but blushed. "That's so cheesy."
He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. "So are pancakes. But you love those too."
They ate on the patio, wrapped in blankets, legs tangled as twilight painted the lake in hues of rose and indigo. He fed her tiny bites, kissed the corner of her mouth when syrup stuck there.
—
Later that night, he found her curled on the oversized sofa, flipping through the book he'd left on the coffee table.
"You're reading The Art of Loving?" he asked, amused.
She nodded sleepily. "Trying to understand you."
He knelt in front of her. "Then let me help."
Zayden pulled her into his lap and read to her softly, fingers stroking her back while her head rested on his shoulder. When her eyelids fluttered closed, he closed the book and kissed her slowly—like a promise.
They made love with slow devotion that night, beneath the soft linen sheets, bathed in moonlight.
—
The next morning, they cooked together again. He wore her apron. She wore his shirt. Music played in the background while she danced around him, giggling as he tried not to burn the eggs.
He lifted her onto the counter, pressing kisses down her neck as she fed him blueberries.
"I could get used to this," she whispered.
He looked at her seriously. "Then do. Stay here. With me. For as long as you want."
And for the first time in a long while, Elena didn't feel like she was running anymore.
She felt home.
But even homes can tremble under storms.
And somewhere beyond the golden hills, the storm was gathering.
---