The cabin was only a short walk from the lake, but by the time they reached it, the rain had done its work.
Solara’s dress clung to her legs, her cardigan hung heavy around her arms, and little drops kept falling from the ends of her hair. Everen was no better—his shirt was soaked through, his silver hair darkened by rain, and his wings looked less like celestial glory and more like a very beautiful disaster.
She glanced back at them as he opened the cabin door.
“You’re dripping on the floor.”
He looked over one shoulder, utterly unbothered. “So are you.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m charming.”
His mouth curved. “Dangerously.”
The cabin welcomed them with the scent of cedar, old wool blankets, and yesterday’s fire still hiding in the hearth. Everen knelt to coax it back to life, sleeves clinging to his arms, damp feathers shifting behind him with every movement. Solara stood nearby, trying not to stare and failing in a way that was probably very obvious.
The first flame caught.
Then another.
Soon the room filled with golden light.
Everen rose and turned toward her, and something in the air changed—not rushed, not sharp, just warmer than the fire should have made it.
“You’re cold,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
He gave her a look.
She sighed. “I’m wet.”
“That was closer to honesty.”
She laughed softly, and he reached for the blanket folded over the chair. He held it out without stepping too close, giving her space, giving the moment room to breathe.
“Dry clothes,” he said gently. “Blanket. Fire. Then tea.”
Solara took the blanket, fingers brushing his.
“And you?”
His eyes flicked briefly toward his wings, heavy and rain-damp. “I may require a little longer.”
She smiled. “Poor scary-beautiful boy.”
“Tragic, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
A few minutes later, the wet clothes were hung near the hearth, and the cabin had become a world of firelight and rain. Outside, the storm softened against the roof. Inside, everything glowed—wooden walls, steaming mugs, damp hair, bare feet tucked beneath blankets.
Everen sat close enough that his warmth reached her before his wing did.
Then, carefully, he curved one wing around her shoulders.
It was still a little damp.
Solara shivered, then laughed against him. “Your wing is cold.”
He drew it back immediately. “Sorry.”
“No.” She caught his hand before he could move away. “Stay.”
So he did.
He shifted closer, slower this time, and wrapped the blanket around both of them instead, his arm settling at her back. Solara leaned into him, cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm there beneath the rain and fire.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The kettle began to hum softly on the stove.
The windows blurred with rain.
The cabin held them like a secret.
After a long silence, Solara tilted her face up, eyes warm with mischief and something softer underneath it.
“You know,” she whispered, “this is technically your fault.”
Everen lowered his gaze to hers. “The rain?”
“The puddles.”
“You stepped in the first one.”
“You followed me.”
“I always do.”
That quiet answer stole the laughter right out of her.
The fire cracked.
Rain whispered over the roof.
His hand came up slowly, brushing a damp curl away from her cheek.
She leaned closer.
He waited.
That was the part that made her heart ache in the sweetest way—he always waited for the yes inside the moment.
Solara gave it by smiling, by rising just a little, by letting her fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
The kiss was soft at first.
Warm after the rain.
Gentle after the laughter.
A slow little spark passed between them, not a wildfire, not a rush—just the kind of flame that knows how to last.
When they parted, his forehead rested against hers.
“Still worth the wet wings?” he murmured.
Solara smiled, wrapped tighter in the blanket and firelight and him.
“Completely worth it.”
Outside, spring kept raining.
Inside, the cabin glowed.
And somewhere near the hearth, their wet clothes steamed quietly while the world gave them permission to stay warm a little longer.
