The storm had finally passed. When Claire fluttered her eyes open, a burst of sunshine spewed through the thin, white binders of the window. Cramped underneath the duvet, she couldn't feel a thing other than her sore body and hazed memories flashing back so quickly that they jolted her fully awake.

Am I dead? Panic seared through her, and immediately she took in her surroundings while propping herself onto her elbows to sit upright. The ivory ceiling was high above her, and the bed was too big and certainly not hers. No, this wasn't her home, so where the hell was she?

The cemetery... Bruno... rain, lots of rain... panic... Oh, the stranger in a trench coat.

Claire collected the pieces together, and her breath quickened rapidly. Everything was clear now except for the rescue part. Another roar of thunder and her fuse broke, she recalled. However, despite the blackout in her brain, she could still remember the feeling of being held by strong arms amid the rainfall.

"Oh God," she breathed, struggling to scramble out of the huge duvet while ignoring the fact that she was in an oversized sweater and cotton joggers that maybe belonged to a guy.

But the warmth and comfort she felt through them were godsent.

"Take it easy, miss," a soft voice muttered, throwing Claire back on the bed.

An old woman walked in, holding a stack of clean towels that she soon put down on the bedside table.

"How are you feeling? You were burning with a fever a while ago, so I had to sponge you. I'm glad it did the trick." Her voice was as warm as the smile adorning her round face, and a sloppy bun of graying hair stood neatly atop her head.

But Claire was wary. She was still at the corner of the bed, her back against the headboard with eyes on the old lady who gave her a concerned look.

"I-I think I'm fine," she croaked.

"Oh, thank heavens." Smiling once again, the old lady grabbed the edge of the duvet and peeled it off the bed, her plump body moving gracefully as she shifted to another side, taking the woolen sheet away.

"I'm sorry to ask but... Where am I and how did I get here?" Claire couldn't contain her curiosity the more she trained her lackluster eyes around the Victorian-style bedroom and back to her caretaker.

"You don't remember?" the old lady queried, her big gentle eyes bearing some kind of sympathy toward her.

Claire didn't like that kind of look, but she understood. Everyone thinks I'm a freak to be freaked by the rain so it's okay, she thought achingly to herself. It wasn't something new.

"Not much," she confessed, slowly landing her socked feet onto the Ottoman rug covering most of the bedroom's wooden floor.

"Unfortunately, my boss didn't mention what sort of an accident you had, but you were carried in his arms unconscious when he brought you here," the old lady explained, and that was quite informative per Claire's expectations.

The old lady later introduced herself as Martha, the head housekeeper.

"Thank you, Martha," Claire said, smiling faintly despite the conundrum swirling around her brain like a whirlwind.

"It's okay." Carefully, Martha placed the roughly folded duvet on the wing chair stationed next to the window. As she turned around, she told Claire, "I'll prepare you a warm bath and clothes; Mr. Stevens and his grandson will be expecting you downstairs if you are good enough to walk by now."

Of course, Claire could walk. She was fine; the rain was over and so was her panic. But who was this Mr. Stevens? And the grandson? Maybe one of them was the man in a trench coat who saved her from her demons?

"Well then, call me if you need anything," Martha finished, and with a nod from Claire, she disappeared.

At last, Claire abandoned the bed and paced towards the large French window upon the sound of the birds tweeting. It finally dawned on her that she was in a very big mansion the minute she strayed her gaze outside. Unbidden, a smile tugged at her dry lips at the sight of a vast garden filled with colorful flowers and very green grass.

A deep sigh emitted through her nose, and her head hung low into the window pane. She watched them quietly from the second story of the house and being up here somehow felt like it was a castle, and she was a lost stranger encased in it. And the idea of meeting Mr. Stevens and his grandson made her tummy tighten in knots, but it was inevitable.

After the warm bath, Claire slipped back into the same sweater and joggers, having nothing else to wear. There was a knock at the door, and Martha walked in upon her assent.

"Your clothes are here, but you can change after breakfast," Martha said suggestively with a neatly folded bundle of Claire's jeans and blouse, a small smile of amusement lingering on her chubby face at the oversized clothes she was still wearing.

"I look awful, right?" Claire muttered, unsure of her attire this time.

"Not really. You're too beautiful to be awful in any clothes," Martha said, and Claire could feel the warmth of her cheeks as she blushed. "I'm just used to seeing those clothes on Ryan, so I apologize if I made you uncomfortable."

A frown flitted on Claire's face. "Ryan...?"

"Mr. Steven's grandson," Martha uttered, a hint of fondness in her voice. "Are you ready?"

Claire slouched her shoulders with a deep sigh. Gently, she bobbed her head and replied, "Yeah, but... let me put on my underwear." 

In response, Martha cackled lightly, and Claire's flushed face deepened in color.

She liked this old lady.

Through the dimly lit corridor, Claire followed Martha's lead. The walls were coated in an immaculate cream color, and grand paintings embellished their surfaces. As an aspiring interior designer with a good eye for art, Claire could tell what a fortune they were worth.

After strutting through a long wooden staircase, they finally caught sight of two gentlemen at the dining table, seated across from one another. They regarded her instantly as she approached, and her heart nearly stilled from the tension.

"Um, good morning," she greeted, her breath so nervous that she gripped the edge of her sweater tightly against her hip bones.

Her eyes sauntered between Mr. Stevens, who was now staring amiably at her, and Ryan, who was holding a large newspaper, only glancing at her once as though he was making sure she was alive and well and nothing more.

"Good morning, young lady." Mr. Stevens places his cup of tea on the table without tearing his gaze away from Claire. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Um...great!" Claire replied rather quickly, and at last, the sweater was free from her grip as she reached for the ruffled strands of her aureate hair and pulled them behind her ears. "Thank you for... for saving my life." She focused on Mr. Stevens, even though she was sure that the one who saved her from that storm was the cold-looking young man whose face hid behind the newspaper.

Ryan. He must be Ryan.

"Forget about that. Why don't you take a seat and have breakfast with us?" Mr. Stevens suggested, and Martha was quick in pulling a chair for Claire.

The table was inviting. Fresh croissants, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and bacon made Claire's tummy grumble. Indeed, good food could be her death before the rain killed her. She sat down with pleasure, but it was equally truncated by Ryan's face that streamed into view like a blinding light after the age of darkness.

Claire's heart didn't leap, but her eyes betrayed her. He was gorgeous.

Having the Greek godly look was not in question, for the baby blue sweatshirt and jeans made him radiant despite the casualty. Claire vaguely remembered seeing his face before falling into darkness last night. He saved her. She wanted to thank him but decided against it.

Something about his eyes, the smoldering brown films akin to scorching fire or blazing summer sun, held Claire still in her seat, pushing her words back into her throat.

"You should try the pancakes and honey. It's Martha's specialty," Mr. Stevens enthused, interrupting Claire's inner battle.

"Okay," she muttered, taking one from the large mountain in the ceramic tray afterward. And fuck, she was starving.

An easy silence ensued for one tense minute. Claire tried hard to focus on the moment, but the memories from last night kept tricking her mind like a whisper of the wind and pushed her hence and forth between today and yesterday.

Honestly, things could have ended up badly if it weren't for them... or him. Her attention was now on Ryan, and much to her surprise, he was staring back at her so plainly that her breath hitched.

But he didn't utter a syllable.

"Are you from around here?" Mr. Stevens began, and it was Claire's chance to explain her predicament by saying she was just a weekend visitor who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She didn't mention her phobia, and no one coerced her into saying more than what she wanted to say.

"Your friend called last night," Ryan uttered eventually, his deep voice as thick and gentle as molasses. "You should probably call her back." His eyes didn't spare a blink, and it somehow made Claire's heart leap at last.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Ryan nodded lightly and stood up right away. He left the table.

Claire's eyes followed his towering height, and the feeling of a man in a trench coat was almost palpable now. She hugged him last night. And God, she'd never felt that safe in ages. Sighing, finding this sudden teenage behavior of hers unsettling, she returned the attention to the grandfather to reclaim her sanity.

Mr. Stevens was way better for a company, she thought, finding his eyes staring amusedly at her as if he'd caught her stealing cookies in his jar.

Was I staring at Ryan too much? Claire sunk in embarrassment.

"So, what exactly do you do, my child?" The old man pulled a napkin to dry his lips, done with the breakfast.

Claire swallowed the tasty bite of pancake and replied, "Um, I graduated from Lisbay University recently. A degree in Interior Designing, and I'm hoping to start my internship soon."

"That's brilliant! Congratulations!" Mr. Stevens was awed, and that look of pride in his eyes as if they were related warmed Claire's heart. "You live in Lisbay then?" He seemed mildly curious.

"Yeah," Claire replied, pouring more milk into her coffee.

"I see. My grandson lives there too," Mr. Stevens remarked, scratching his gray beard that was identical to his curly hair.

Okay? Claire didn't know what to say, but she offered him a smile.

Soon after breakfast, Claire called Gena and explained shortly what had happened. The call reassured her grandfather, too, who had been worried sick about her safety. She promised them to be back soon and used some time to roam around the garden, and only stopped in front of a vast swimming pool in the side yard, just to stare at her reflection on the water floor, and maybe breathe in the crispy, after-rain air as a sign of life.

"Were you trying to commit suicide?" A firm, but familiar voice, startled Claire.

She was nearly tripping when Ryan's hand jerked her arm so she wouldn't fall haphazardly into the pool. Her heart rate accelerated and it wasn't only from the danger of the fall, but also because it was this man holding her again.

"Careful." Ryan pulled her up into a safe stance, and she breathed out heavily.

"You shouldn't sneak on people like that," Claire said quietly and stood upright. "Suicide? You are crazy," she finally remarked.

"Am I, now?" A small, unexpected smile stretched Ryan's lips and made Claire's go dry.

So the cold one could smile too? Undeniably, it was sweet to watch. They stood face to face, and his body had blocked the ringlets of sunrays which gave Claire's eyes some kind of relief as it was shining brightly now.

"So, what's your deal with the rain?" Ryan asked casually, eyes on the mobile in his hand, all the while another hand of his slid into the pocket of his jeans.

Not the route Claire wanted to take. She somehow coiled, and Ryan noticed the shift of her composure when he trained his eyes sideways at her.

"Well, I was just—" She paused, conflicted, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "I mean, it was just an accident just as I said earlier in—"

"Reschedule the meeting." Ryan was on the phone, his firm gaze still fixed on Claire.

She glowered at him but he didn't seem to care.

"I'll be there first thing tomorrow morning, and everything will proceed as planned." His tone was gentle but imperial, and so was his aura that somehow overwhelmed Claire.

He looked like a boss, and momentarily, Claire wondered what he did for a living.

"Boss or whatever, so what?" Claire muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes heavenward at his obtuse manners.

Was it so hard to say 'excuse me, I'm taking the call?' What a jerk! She inwardly poured him all the detesting remarks she could give.

"What did you say?" Ryan questioned as he ended the call.

Huffing, Claire folded her arms across her chest. "Nothing. I was just talking to myself," she said and glanced away toward the swimming pool.

"If you say so," Ryan uttered with an exhausted sigh. "If it wasn't a suicide, good, but be very careful next time." He turned around to leave, never waiting for her reply.

"Jerk," Claire muttered, and soon his eyes caught up with hers again. "I-I mean, okay. I'll be careful next time," she added swiftly.

Why was she getting mad at him, though?

A small laugh escaped Ryan. "If you're done procrastinating, go get changed so I can give you a ride home. I don't really care what name you call me, Claire, as long as you don't stand frozen in the middle of the road as you did yesterday," he told her, and the sound of her name from his lips felt like a sinful caress.

Fuck, Claire Levy! Focus! She held her breath, watching his fit frame moving gaily, and she realized that he was indeed a work of art.

It was Ryan who gave her a ride back to the beach house, and she was sure as hell that she was never going to forget her encounter with this man even if she wanted nothing but to forget him altogether.

____________

A/N: Pardon me for such a long-ass chapter. I tried my best to make it short but... Well, I couldn't.