The sun filtered in through half-closed curtains, casting pale stripes of light across the pristine white sheets.
Callum stirred.
His body ached—not with pain, but with a strange heaviness, like his limbs remembered something his mind didn't.
He blinked slowly.
Seraphine.
She lay with her back to him, hair spilled across the pillow in effortless waves. The sheet traced the line of her shoulder blades, her breathing soft and even.
He lay still. Watching her.
She smelled of quiet rain and warmed linen. He inhaled again, and realized—
He didn't reek of alcohol.
He wasn't in the clothes he left in.
His shirt was clean. He wore sleepwear—pressed and folded, unfamiliar to his hands.
His skin carried faint notes of sandalwood and citrus—her soap.
Her hands had touched him. Cleaned him. Changed him.
Brought him back.
His fingers curled lightly into the edge of the sheet.
He stared at her for a long moment, as if memorizing the curve of her back, the soft rise and fall of her breath.
Then he slipped from the bed without a word.
---
The bathroom mirror reflected a stranger. Not broken, not complete—just not him.
Water rushed from the faucet as he washed his face—sharp and cold, a fleeting solace amid the haze. Then his eyes caught every detail: a dish holding pink soap, a bottle of vanilla shampoo placed beside his own, her robe casually draped next to his towel. In the closet, her dresses hung neatly beside his shirts; her jewelry case, her perfumes—each piece unmistakably hers.
Seraphine had moved in. No hesitation. No permission asked.
And yet, as he stared it all in, a curious warmth stirred within him—a secret delight at how her presence had quietly transformed his space. It was as though each item, each small invasion, brought with it a tender promise of connection.
He shut the door, walked out, and left—just like that.
---
That night, Callum didn't return.
Again.
But this time, neither did she.
By noon, Seraphine was already gone—her father's car rolling past the gates of Avienne Hall.
She didn't leave a note.
She packed only what was necessary.
The rest of her, it seemed, stayed behind.
---
At the Elion Military Complex, there were no glass chandeliers or velvet couches. Only cement, steel, and silence sharpened by discipline.
Seraphine wore her uniform like a second skin.
Days passed in formation drills, map evaluations, and briefing audits. Her father left her alone, as if knowing not to ask. As if he too heard the ticking silence inside her.
She took meals standing.
She reviewed logistics until midnight.
She answered questions only when they were tactical. But she never forgot to call Jonas to fetch Callum.
Her aides noticed her growing quiet. Sharper. Less human.
"Should I prepare your return schedule, ma'am?" one dared to ask.
"Not yet," she said.
Somehow, she hopes her absence will heal him.
---
Ninety-three days passed.
Rain tapped lightly on the expansive windows of the command office, a gentle counterpoint to the steady hum of unfinished business. Seraphine had just stepped out of the evening simulation—a session filled with battles fought in virtual corridors—when her phone vibrated in her coat pocket. The screen flashed an unknown number, and for a moment, she hesitated, almost letting it fade into background noise.
Almost.
"Is this Elion's War-master General Seraphine?" a measured voice asked.
Sera answered with a controlled "Yes."
"General Elion, this is St. Ives Hospital. Your husband, Mr. Callum Virell, has been admitted."
There was a pause.
"...What happened?" Her voice rose, laced with the sudden urgency of a command that demanded attention.
"He was struck by a motor vehicle outside a downtown establishment. Witnesses noted he appeared intoxicated. He's sustained a dislocated shoulder and minor internal bruising. He's stable, but heavily sedated."
"Okay, I'll be there."
Another pause, heavy with implication.
"Also," the nurse continued gently, "he keeps muttering your daughter Dahlia's name, ma'am. It might be best if you come with her."
In that instant, the world seemed to shatter into silence. Her heart stuttered, as if it had stopped altogether.
Then, almost in a whisper borne of fragile resolve, she answered, "Understood. Thank you, ma'am."
Seraphine ended the call, the quiet resilience in her tone belying the storm that churned beneath. Amid the soft patter of rain and the echo of distant orders, she gathered herself—prepared to face the day, determined to navigate the fragile intersection of duty, love, and the unexpected price that came with them.
---
St. Ives Hospital glowed pale against the night sky. Its emergency wing was quiet, nurses walking in muted strides, the scent of antiseptic clinging to every corridor.
Her boots echoed against the tiles paired with someone's shoe sounds.
Her uniform was still damp from the rain.
Her braid was loose while her company's hair was tied high.
Her expression unreadable.
But her heart—raced like a warning drum, every beat faster than the last.
She didn't ask which room.
She already knew.
And in that silence, walking between fluorescent lights and closed doors, something inside her clenched tight—
—something that had nothing to do with duty.
And everything to do with him.