The boat drifted gently across the Serpentine, cutting a quiet path through the water as the late afternoon sun lit the lake in a haze of silver and soft gold. Around them, the world moved quietly—swans glided across the surface like ghosts in white silk, and the hush of leaves shifting in the breeze reached across the lake from the surrounding trees.
Leon sat at the far end of the boat, his long legs drawn up loosely, one hand in the water, trailing faint ripples behind them. He was dressed simply—no cap, no mask, just him, open and strangely calm. Beth sat across from him, her fingers wrapped around the edge of her seat, watching the swans with something like awe—or maybe distance.
"You know," Leon said, after a long, comfortable silence, "I used to think swans were a myth. Like they weren't real. Too perfect."
Beth looked at him sideways. "They bite."
He grinned faintly. "Exactly."
The boat floated on.
Beth leaned back slightly, the sun catching in her hair. "Do you miss it?"
Leon blinked. "Miss what?"
"The noise. The cameras. The attention."
He was quiet a moment.
Then: "Sometimes. But not for the reasons people think. I don't miss being seen—I miss the illusion of purpose. Everything in that world feels like it matters. Even if none of it really does."
Beth nodded. She didn't press further. She didn't have to.
After another pause, he added softly, "I'm glad I'm here."
Beth looked at him.
Leon's eyes were on the water now. His voice was low, but deliberate. "With you. Not… anyone else."
A swan glided past the boat, slow and regal, its reflection wavering beside it.
Beth reached out, not quite touching Leon's hand, but letting her fingers rest just a few inches away.
And he, seeing that small, silent gesture, let his hand drift back up—just enough for their fingers to meet.
No declarations. No promises.
Just two people on a boat, in a brief stillness, suspended in a London summer.
Leon's fingers slid into hers—slowly, purposefully—and then he leaned forward across the narrow space between them. The boat rocked gently, but neither noticed.
He kissed her.
Long. Deep. Ravenously—not out of hunger, but as if trying to memorize the shape of her breath, the way her mouth moved when she wanted to speak but chose not to.
It wasn't careful. It wasn't clean.
It was real.
Beth melted into it, her free hand rising instinctively to his shoulder, steadying them both as the boat gently swayed beneath the weight of everything unsaid.
When they finally parted, their foreheads touched.
Leon's voice was a whisper, low and hoarse and nothing like the one he used for scripts or fans or red carpets.
"I wish I could row with you every day of my life," he murmured against her mouth, his breath warm on her lips.
Beth's heart clenched, not painfully—but sharply. Like the sound of something precious being named aloud for the first time.
And for once, she didn't doubt the words.
Not yet.
The world around them stilled.
The water lapped quietly against the wooden hull. The swans continued their gliding, oblivious. Somewhere in the distance, children laughed. But here, in the center of the Serpentine, there was only breath—hers, his—and the sudden, electric pause of something vast unfolding.
Leon shifted, and before Beth could fully understand what he was doing, he knelt—right there in the boat, careful not to tip them, with that rare grace that came not from rehearsal, but from intention.
From truth.
He reached into the pocket of his jacket, pulled out a small, worn velvet box. He opened it.
Inside was a ring—simple, elegant. A single diamond set in a slender platinum band. Not flashy. Not loud.
It looked like something chosen in quiet thought. Or perhaps carried for a long time before being truly meant.
Leon looked up at her, his green eyes clearer than she'd ever seen them, no shadow of the mask, no flash of charm—only him.
"Will you, Beth?" he asked, voice trembling despite himself. "Will you marry me?"
There it was.
No performance.
No script.
Just one question, and everything in it.
Beth's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, the sky blurred above them, and the lake shimmered not with light, but with the salt rising in her eyes.
She pressed her hand to her mouth, her heart galloping too fast for anything composed.
And then—softly, brokenly, joyfully—
"Yes," she sobbed. "I will. I will."
Leon let out a breath that was part-laugh, part-relief, and completely real. His hand trembled slightly as he slid the ring onto her finger, his eyes never leaving hers.
When it was done, he rose from his knees and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, forehead pressed to hers, the boat rocking gently beneath them.
The swans circled distantly. The world moved on, unaware.
But for Leon and Beth, time stopped—held fast in that quiet corner of Hyde Park, a secret eternity on the water, sealed with a kiss, a ring, and two small, reckless words:
I will.
They were gathered in the hospital waiting room—Chris sprawled across two plastic chairs, Amanda pacing in a slow, agitated rhythm, and Jefrey half-reading a textbook, half-watching Beth with wary curiosity. Helena had just been taken in for another round of treatment. The air smelled of coffee, paper, and underlying fear.
Beth stood in front of them, her hand trembling slightly as she held it out.
The diamond on her finger caught the light.
There was a beat of silence.
Amanda blinked once. Twice. Then, "Are you kidding me?!"
Her voice echoed off the sterile walls. "You're—what? Engaged? Engaged?! To Leon Troy?!"
Beth nodded, biting her lower lip, eyes glassy with overwhelmed joy and nerves. "He asked me yesterday. On the Serpentine. I said yes."
Jefrey looked like he'd been punched in the gut, though he masked it quickly. His jaw tightened, his gaze flicking to the ring, then away.
Chris, on the other hand, leapt to his feet as if someone had set him on fire.
"Engaged?!To Leon Troy?! THE Leon Troy?! Beth, this is divine intervention! No—this is the cinematic universe folding in on itself!"
He grabbed her hands, inspecting the ring, then turned sharply to Amanda. "Do you have any idea what this means?"
Amanda, still processing, blinked. "She's marrying someone who disappears for weeks and owns swans?"
"No!" Chris shouted. "She's marrying someone who's related to Aglaya Simon! Who has Sanlu Ritzchel on speed dial! Beth, I need autographs. Immediately. One from Leon. Three from Aglaya. Two from Sanlu. No—four. One for me, one for Helena, one to laminate, and one for the Church youth group."
"Chris," Amanda snapped, "you sound like you're trying to loot a museum."
Beth couldn't help it—she laughed. The kind that came too quickly, too full of nerves and joy.
Jefrey stayed seated, quiet, but managed to force a smile. "Congrats, Beth," he said, voice even. "I hope he treats you well."
Beth looked at him, her smile faltering for just a heartbeat. "Thanks, Jef."
Chris, meanwhile, had taken out a crumpled sheet of notebook paper and was already scribbling down AUTOGRAPH STRATEGY LIST. "And while we're at it," he muttered, "do you think Leon could convince Orlando to record a voicemail message for me? Just casually? No pressure."
Amanda groaned, dragging her hands over her face. "He's going to be unbearable."
Beth smiled again, this time quieter. "Yeah," she said. "But… I think I might be happy."
"I want to be bridegroom," Chris announced, standing with arms dramatically outstretched like he was auditioning for The Sound of Music. "I want to stay at your future house. I can work for you two—wash dishes, do laundry, recite The Fellowship of the Ring from memory while vacuuming. Anything."
Amanda nearly dropped her coffee. "Chris, that's not how bridegrooms work."
Beth laughed, shaking her head, cheeks flushed from joy and embarrassment both. "We're not getting married soon, Chris. Not until I graduate."
Chris narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Define 'soon.'"
Beth held up a hand. "University. Degree. Diploma in hand. Until then, he agreed to wait."
Jefrey, from his chair, nodded slightly, but said nothing.
Amanda raised an eyebrow. "He's really going to wait?"
Beth looked down at her ring, her voice softening. "He said he would. And—he offered to pay for Helena's bills."
That silenced the room.
Chris blinked. "He… what?"
Beth nodded, the weight of it still settling in her chest. "He didn't make a big show of it. Just said he wanted to help, that it wasn't charity, it was family. He even said we could keep it anonymous if we wanted—no headlines, no credit."
Amanda put a hand over her mouth, her eyes suddenly damp. Jefrey looked at Beth again, this time longer. Something unreadable passed behind his gaze—grief, maybe, or resignation—but then he looked down, nodding faintly.
Chris wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie. "Okay. That's it. He's officially Legolas in my heart now. Better, actually. Legolas never paid for cancer treatment."
Beth smiled, and this time it wasn't shy, or nervous, or uncertain.
It was quiet. Solid. Real.
"I think I'm starting to like this guy," Amanda murmured, almost against her will.
Chris gasped theatrically. "Amanda Gibson, admitting approval? Hold the press."
Amanda ignored him, eyes still lowered, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "I mean, I still think he's dramatic. And has Bronchiectasis. And is a little too good-looking for anyone's mental health."
Chris nodded solemnly. "His bone structure is a crime against average men."
"But…" Amanda lifted her gaze slowly to meet Beth's, and her voice softened. "If he's the kind of person who offers to help with Aunt Helena, without needing the credit… That says something."
Beth smiled—deep, relieved, and real.
"He didn't even tell me at first," she said. "I only found out when the hospital administrator called and told me everything had been cleared."
Jefrey finally looked up, voice low but sincere. "It does say something. Not just about what he can do—but about what he chooses to do."
Amanda sighed, the edge in her tone fading. "Alright. I'm not sold yet. But… he's making a solid case."
Chris threw up his hands. "This is the most emotionally healthy conversation we've ever had in this family."
Beth looked down at the ring on her finger, her fingers gently brushing over it.
Somehow, in that moment, it wasn't about the glamour. Or the headlines. Or the surreal fact that she was engaged to someone once glimpsed behind a mask in Reine.
It was about the choice he'd made when no one asked him to.
And how, maybe, that was the clearest sign of who someone really was.
The rest of the summer unfolded in shades both golden and quiet—never quite returning to the lightheartedness they'd started with, but deepening into something more lasting, more real.
They no longer measured time by vacation days, but by hospital visits and whispered updates. Helena's condition waxed and waned, some days bright with cautious hope, others wrapped in the heavy stillness of waiting. Through it all, the four of them—Beth, Amanda, Jefrey, and Chris—wove themselves into something like a family.
Chris, to no one's surprise, became the emotional glue. He remained hopelessly addicted to his rotation of films (Elizabethtown, Pirates of the Caribbean, and that one bootleg DVD of Troy he wouldn't admit to watching every other night), but he also began attending mass more often and started baking banana bread for the nurses. "Therapeutic carbs," he called them. "Also a bribe for more visiting hours."
Amanda took over most of the logistics—prescriptions, appointments, meal plans—and pretended it didn't hurt when she caught her mother wincing more often. But at night, when she thought no one noticed, she'd sit in Helena's chair by the window and knit the beginnings of something warm, unraveled and reknit a hundred times over.
Jefrey grew quieter. Not withdrawn, just more reflective. He spent mornings with his mother, afternoons with textbooks, and evenings sometimes just… walking. Often alone. Sometimes with Beth. And if he looked at her too long, or smiled too softly when she talked about Leon, he never let it show. Not fully.
And Beth, engaged in secret and in full view all at once, lived a life of two halves. Mornings were for Leon, who—true to his word—did not vanish again. He took her on long walks through the city's quieter streets, always in disguise, always unhurried. They watched plays at the Globe. Sat on rooftops. Shared sandwiches on the steps of the V&A. He read her lines from scripts he hadn't accepted. She read him pieces from her sketchbooks.
Afternoons were for the hospital, where her love for her family showed differently: in the way she rubbed Helena's back when the nausea came, or the way she swapped shifts with Amanda without needing to ask. And every night, she wrote.
Not for school. Not for anyone.
Just memories she didn't want to forget.
And then—like that—August crept in.
The light thinned. The air shifted. Letters from university started to arrive. Summer, real summer, began to fray at the edges.
Helena's health held steady. Not better, not worse. Just stable enough to breathe, but never deep.
And in the quiet space between waiting and moving forward, the four of them stood—bound by something more than time or blood.
They had all changed. Or at least seemed to.
And the summer had, too.