Chapter 23: Warm Milk and Warmer Words

The morning sun streamed gently through the windows, filtering through the soft curtains of the penthouse kitchen like golden ribbons. The scent of warm cinnamon bread and brewed tea filled the space, a familiar comfort that wrapped around Raine like a hug. It was a normal morning—or at least, it looked like one.

She stood barefoot on the marble tiles, wearing her soft new blue sundress, the one she'd joyfully purchased at a discount that felt like a miracle. A ribbon tied around her waist with a playful bow, and her long hair was tied back loosely as she hummed a cheerful tune under her breath. The day should have started like any other—simple, quiet, peaceful.

But something felt… off.

Jeff—no, Tristan—sat silently at the dining counter, dressed in a plain black T-shirt and joggers. His usual sarcastic or quiet energy was absent. His shoulders were slightly slumped, and there was a weariness in his eyes Raine had never noticed before. Not the kind that came from a bad night's sleep, but something deeper. He hadn't spoken more than a few words since she woke up. He hadn't even teased her dress this time.

She poured warm milk into a porcelain mug, added a touch of honey and cinnamon—her late grandmother's comfort recipe—and brought it over to him. "Here," she said, gently sliding the mug toward him. "You look like you need this more than I do."

Tristan blinked, as if emerging from a faraway thought. He looked at the mug, then at her. His lips parted, about to speak, but no sound came out.

"You okay?" she asked softly, tilting her head, her voice low but clear.

There was a pause.

"I'm fine," he said, and even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie.

Raine gave him a look. The kind that wasn't demanding, wasn't prying—but one that quietly said, I'm here. You can tell me.

She walked around the counter and sat on the stool beside him, swinging her legs slightly. The silence hung in the air between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was just… heavy.

"You know," she said after a few moments, sipping her own drink, "when I was younger, I used to think people were either good or bad. Heroes or villains. But now that I've grown a little… I think the truth is, everyone's just trying to survive in their own way."

Tristan didn't look at her. His gaze was distant, staring into the swirling milk in his cup.

"Some people do bad things," she continued. "But it doesn't always mean they're bad. Sometimes… they were just cornered. Or scared. Or they didn't know any other way."

She nudged his shoulder playfully, and finally, he glanced at her. Her eyes met his, full of sincerity. Of light.

"I don't know what's bothering you," she said gently, "but you don't have to pretend with me. Not here. Not now."

His throat tightened. He couldn't explain to her the weight of last night. The blood. The rage. The temptation to kill. The fact that he almost did. That he wanted to. That a piece of him—deep down—enjoyed it.

She couldn't know.

And yet, somehow, her words pierced through the armor he'd built his whole life. Because Raine wasn't trying to fix him. She wasn't asking for the truth. She was simply... there. With warm milk and kinder eyes than he deserved.

"You ever feel like there's a monster in you?" he finally asked, voice low and raw.

Raine tilted her head. "Yes."

He blinked.

She gave a small, sad smile. "Everyone has one. The difference is whether we feed it—or fight it."

Tristan's jaw clenched slightly. "What if mine's too strong?"

"Then don't fight it alone," she said simply.

Silence again.

She continued. "People think strength is about fists, power, or being cold. But real strength... is when you're hurt, but you still choose to be kind. Or when the world drags you into the mud, and you get up anyway. That's strength, Jeff."

She didn't know it, but those words dug deep.

Raine picked up his hand gently, cradling it between hers. He stiffened at first—her warmth startled him. No one ever touched him like that. Not without fear. Not with care.

"And if you ever need someone to remind you who you really are... I'll be here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at her fingers curled around his. Small. Soft. Warm.

Tristan Vaughn, king of the underworld, covered in sins and scars, feared by many, had never felt so disarmed. Not by violence. But by gentleness.

"Thanks… Raine," he said. It was all he could manage.

She smiled at him. "Now drink the milk before it gets cold."

He chuckled—quiet and unguarded. It was short-lived, but it was real.

And in that moment, Tristan realized something terrifying:

He was falling.

And maybe, just maybe… he wanted to.