When the Demon Calls Her Name

The first drops of rain splattered against the window in soft, irregular bursts—just like her heartbeat. Each drop fell heavier than the last, tracing paths of cool, damp gravity against the glass as if the world itself were trying to drown the noise inside her head.

Evie lay in bed, the covers tangled around her limbs, her body heavy, as if the weight of the storm outside had seeped through the walls and pressed down on her chest.

She blinked at the ceiling, staring at the fractured shadows cast by the rain.

The light from the street lamp outside flickered intermittently, casting long, jagged lines across the room like broken thoughts.

The quiet was overwhelming, too quiet.

It gnawed at her.

A memory slithered through her mind—her mother’s voice, always tense in storms like this, a whispering fear that something was about to break.

Evie had always hated the rain. It was too still, too cold, a reminder of how much she wanted to escape the quiet, the unspoken thoughts that clawed at her when no one was around.

It made her wonder, in a way that felt almost prophetic, if she would ever escape the dark part of herself that seemed to grow more pronounced with each passing day.

"One day, it’ll drown you," her mother had said.

Evie closed her eyes, the past rushing in faster than the rain against the glass.

The steady tap, tap, tap was her heartbeat; the darkness in her chest was something else—too much, too many pieces falling apart, scattering like ashes in a windstorm.

She rubbed her hands across her face, forcing herself to focus. It was just the storm. It wasn’t the dark that had been with her her whole life. It was the same damn rain every time.

With a breath that felt like it was too much for her lungs, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet as she stood. Her pulse was still there—racing, but not in a good way.

She had never been good at sitting still, not when everything around her felt too quiet, too thick with the weight of her breath.

When she stepped into the living room, the silence only deepened.

It was like the rain was eating the air, but Lucian was already there, sitting on the couch, a book in his hands.

His posture was as unnerving as always—unhurried, calculated.

If anything, it was the stillness of the room that hit her like a punch to the stomach.

“Morning,” she said, her voice too soft, too tired.

She crossed to the kitchen, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the kettle.

The usual hum of the morning was absent, replaced only by the drumming of rain, a soft, rhythmic reminder of how little she knew herself.

Lucian didn’t move as she busied herself. His eyes never left the page of the book in his hands, but the tension in the air was palpable—like he was listening to the echo of her every breath.

“You’re up early,” she muttered, pouring the water into her cup with a sharp hiss.

His response was slow and deliberate, as always. “Demons don’t require much rest.”

“Convenient,” she muttered under her breath.

It was a pointless remark, but the rhythm of their interactions had settled into something that was almost expected—almost comfortable.