Chapter 3: Warmed by the Storm

Rain lashed the town. A gray curtain drew tight beyond the shop’s streaked glass as he stood by the door, watching branches bend and claw at the wind. The storm pressed hard, its gusts battering the hillside and driving water through the patched roof. A slow drip echoed in the corner despite the tarred cloth he’d nailed there an hour ago. His shirt clung damp at the shoulders, chilled from the climb up and the climb back. A vest hung over the chair—frayed, darkened where the leak had reached it earlier.

Lira knelt by the bench, her pencil scratching against paper. The sound ran low beneath the storm’s howl, a soft rhythm countering the chaos outside. Her coat dripped quietly on the hook by the door; her scarf lay coiled like a sleeping thing on the floor. A streak of charcoal marked her dress, and her fingers bore the blur of graphite. She worked, undisturbed, her eyes steady as she traced the gear’s curve, line upon line.

He turned from the window. The antique clock sat where he’d left it, its casing casting long shadows across the bench. The key rested in his pocket, still warm from the secret they’d shared yesterday—fifteen minutes bent, a truth unlocked in silence. He crossed the room. His boots left dark prints on the floorboards; the wood groaned under his weight.

“Storm’s thick,” he said.

She looked up. Her pencil stilled. A half-drawn arc hung on the page.

“Keeps us here,” she replied. She stood, stretching. Her boots scuffed the floor. For a moment, the fabric of her dress pulled taut across her shoulders, caught in the gray light. He noticed. And looked away.

He reached for a file on the bench—small, cool in his palm. He held it out.

She took it. Their fingers met, lingered.

Her gaze steadied on his, dark and clear. “Try it again?” she asked. Her voice was soft, but certain. Rain drummed against the glass like a second pulse.

He hesitated.

The file sat cool between them. He pulled the key from his pocket. It dulled in the dim light, but its warmth pressed against his skin like breath.

He handed it to her.

Their hands met again—this time slower, weightier. The contact sank in deeper. She fitted the key to the clock’s heart and turned it once. Her fingers moved with practiced ease.

The air changed.

A whine rose—higher, keener than before. Time slipped.

She knelt again. The sketch was half-finished. The file still in his hand.

Only they remembered.

She stood quickly this time. Her dress brushed his leg as she moved past him to the bench, her hand reaching for the file.

“How far does it go?” she asked. Her fingers settled on his hand—intentional now. Firm. Warm. A question wrapped in touch.

He stiffened. But did not pull away.

“Fifteen,” he said.

She didn’t let go. Instead, she traced the ridge of his knuckles with her thumb. A slow, deliberate glide.

Then she stepped back.

The skin she’d touched burned in the absence.

“Again,” she said.

She turned the key with a confident flick.