The manor creaked and groaned beneath the weight of the storm that roared in the sky. Rain lashed against the tall arched windows like angry fingers, and the occasional grumble of thunder echoed through the marble corridors like distant cannon fire. A fire flickered in the grand entrance hall's hearth, but the warmth failed to reach Lady Sofia's trembling hands.
She paced.
Then turned.
Then paced again.
Her silken slippers barely made a sound on the polished floor, but her anxiety echoed like gunshots in the high-ceilinged hall. Her ivory nightgown trailed like ghostly mist behind her, and a soft shawl wrapped her arms in trembling warmth. Two of her loyal maids followed her movements with worried eyes—Elsa and Melody —each too afraid to speak but too loyal to leave her side.
"Where is he?" Sofia murmured for the fifth—no, tenth—time. "Why isn't he back yet? He left before dawn... it's past midnight now."
Her voice was soft but cracked like thin glass. Her eyes, rimmed red from sleepless nights and worry, darted toward the heavy oak doors again.
"Do you think..." she whispered, barely able to breathe the words, "do you think he went to war again? Without telling me?"
"Your Grace, perhaps he—"
"Or perhaps he was sent on another mission... or summoned to a secret council... or maybe..."
She closed her eyes. Her hand clutched her chest.
"Maybe something happened."
A flash of lightning streaked across the sky. Thunder boomed so violently it shook the lanterns on the walls. The maids gasped—but Sofia didn't flinch. She was too focused on the image of him—of Commander Henderson Jonathan—bloodied, alone, fighting in some far away forest while she waited here like a fool with nothing but silence and hope.
And just as the storm hit its loudest cry—
The doors flung open with a violent crash.
A rush of icy wind burst in, slamming papers off nearby desks and extinguishing two wall candles.
And there he was.
Henderson Jonathan.
Drenched from head to toe, long black trench coat sticking to his sculpted frame, dark hair soaked and dripping onto the marble like fallen stars. His jaw was clenched, his boots heavy, and his very presence sucked the air from the room.
The maids flinched and quickly curtsied in terror.
Even the fire seemed to dim.
But Sofia…
Sofia stepped forward. Instinctively.
Two rushed, desperate steps.
And then she stopped.
Her breath hitched. Her voice came out in the softest whisper imaginable—
"...You're back."
Tears shimmered in her eyes, glistening like starlight caught in stormwater. Her hands clenched to her heart, desperate to anchor it before it shattered completely.
She didn't dare move any closer.
She knew the rules.
Two meters. Always.
He stared at her.
His sharp eyes, always so unreadable in battle, softened for just a breath. But it was fleeting. A single flicker in the middle of a storm.
Then, without stepping further into the room, without even removing his coat or shaking off the rain, he said:
"Don't wait for me anymore. It's past midnight. You should be in bed."
And like a soldier delivering a mission report, he turned.
Without emotion. Without warmth.
And walked away.
Sofia didn't cry.
She just stood there, frozen, her shawl slipping off her shoulder as her heart whispered, Please don't go... please come back and ask me why I waited...
But he was already gone.
The study door slammed shut behind him.
Jonathan's boots hit the floor with uneven steps—his usual military precision gone.
He paced.
One hand trembling as it ran through his soaked hair, the other clenched at his side like he was still holding a gun.
"She was waiting... she kept waiting all night? Why?"
His voice, usually so cold and commanding, broke in a whisper meant for no one.
He kicked off his boots, threw his gloves onto the desk—but the storm inside him didn't quiet.
"What was that look? Her eyes... was that disappointment? Or... or sadness?"
He sat down. Stood up again.
Pressed his fingers to his temples.
"Did she want me dead?"
"Was she... hoping I wouldn't come back?"
His leg bounced anxiously, fingers twitching. The cold stone walls of his study offered no answers. Only silence.
"Why do I care?"
He whispered to himself like a curse.
"Why do I feel like I'm drowning? Like I'm the one soaked in rain even though I'm inside... why do I feel like I'm bleeding when she hurts?"
And then, without meaning to—
Without planning it—
He whispered the truth.
"Why do I want to hug her tight and fall asleep on her lap?"
"Why do I want her to brush my hair back and tell me I did well, that I'm home now, that I'm safe..."
His hands covered his face.
For the first time in a decade—
The Commander didn't feel like a commander.
He felt like a tired, lonely man who had never known peace.
Until she looked at him like that.
Meanwhile... in the quiet of her bedroom, Sofia sat by the window, arms wrapped around her knees, watching the rain fall like unsent letters.
"I'm not a soldier," she whispered to herself, "but every night feels like a battle."
And in the darkness of the stormy night, two hearts—
A commander and a noblewoman—
Continued loving each other across a war neither of them knew how to fight.