Chapter Seven "The Softness of Knowing"

The storm rolled in without warning. Thick clouds gathered over Braemar's hills, heavy with rain and thunder. Callum had gone to help an old shepherd mend a fence, and Eleanor stood at the door of the cottage, watching the sky darken.

When he returned, soaked and breathless, she met him halfway across the clearing. Without thinking, she pressed a towel into his hands and scolded him lightly. "You'll catch your death," she muttered, though her tone was more worry than anger.

He just smiled, eyes warm despite the rain dripping from his lashes. "You care," he said.

It wasn't a question.It wasn't a tease.It was truth.

She found she had no answer. Only the burn in her cheeks and the way her heart quickened under his gaze.

Later, as the storm lashed against the roof and lightning flared over the hills, they sat close by the fire. Too close, maybe. But neither moved away. He told her stories of the glens, of old ghosts and ancient warriors, his voice low and steady as thunder grumbled in the distance.

At some point, without thinking, she leaned her head against his shoulder.And he let her.More than that, he turned just slightly, resting his cheek against her hair.

For a while, they sat like that. And Eleanor realized that whatever she had thought she was searching for when she left Whitmore Manor—freedom, truth, answers—it was here, now. In this quiet. In the way her body fit beside his. In the certainty that, for the first time, she was seen.

She sighed softly, and his hand found hers, their fingers tangling slowly, without urgency.

Outside, the storm howled. Inside, there was warmth.And something like home.