The night had passed in hushed fragments, a long and uneven rhythm of silence, breath, and half-dreams. Aaron hadn't meant to fall asleep, but somewhere between the steady cadence of Lily's breathing and the warm press of her hand curled into his, his body had yielded. He drifted in and out, always half-awake, always aware of her small fingers resting against his palm like a tether.
When dawn finally came, it crept gently through the curtains, a pale gold that stretched across the floorboards and brushed against the quilt at the edge of Lily's bed. The air smelled faintly of rain-washed earth and night jasmine, clean and sweet, as if the world itself had decided to begin again.
Lily stirred first. Her lashes fluttered, her eyes sticky from dried tears, and for a moment she lay disoriented, caught between the memory of last night and the stillness of this morning. Then her gaze found Aaron—slouched in the chair beside her, his head tilted slightly forward, glowing eyes dimmed in the sleepy gray of dawn. He hadn't moved through the night. Not once.
Her throat tightened. "Aaron?" The word rasped, hoarse and fragile.
He startled awake instantly, lifting his head, his voice roughened with sleep. "Hey. Morning." He straightened, rubbing at the back of his neck, his expression soft but alert, like he was trying not to frighten a bird into flight.
She swallowed, heat creeping up her cheeks. "I must look awful."
Aaron blinked, then gave a small, rueful smile. "You look like someone who's had a hard night," he said simply. "And someone who deserves a gentle morning."
The corners of her lips trembled, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. She looked away, unsure what to do with the knot of shame and relief tangling in her chest.
Aaron rose quietly, his gaze sweeping across the room. His eyes landed on the brush resting on her dresser. He picked it up, turning it once in his hand, then looked back at her. "May I?"
Her breath caught. The request startled her—not because it was grand, but because it was so ordinary, so intimate. She hesitated, then nodded faintly.
Aaron sat carefully on the edge of her bed, the brush awkward in his large hand. His first strokes were cautious, uneven, but he found a rhythm quickly. The bristles whispered through her hair, tugging at small tangles, and each time he paused, easing them free with infinite patience.
Lily's eyes fluttered closed. The tension in her shoulders eased with each pass of the brush. She hadn't realized how much weight she carried even in her scalp, in the small muscles around her temples, until his steady hand loosened them.
"You're better at this than you look," she murmured at last, voice thick with sleep.
Aaron chuckled softly, the sound warm, almost embarrassed. "Don't tell Carla. She'll have me brushing everyone's hair before breakfast."
That drew a faint, tired smile from Lily—fragile, but real. She let herself lean into the care, for once not fighting it, not trying to prove she didn't need it.
When Aaron set the brush aside, he glanced down at her with a quiet steadiness. "Hungry?"
Her instinct was to refuse, to claim she wasn't, to shrink from needing anything. But something about the softness in his tone broke through that old habit. "…Maybe."
"Then breakfast is on me." His words left no room for argument, though his voice was light. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze before rising.
The kitchen smelled faintly of toast when Lily made her slow way downstairs, the soft thud of her crutches marking her rhythm. She found Aaron already moving about the stove, sleeves pushed up, humming the same aimless tune he'd carried the night before. The sight was almost absurdly ordinary—him fussing over eggs and bread—but it filled the room with something warm, something steady.
"You didn't have to—" she began.
"I know," he said, turning toward her with a small grin. "But I wanted to."
He slid a plate onto the table—scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a few slices of apple—and set a glass of water beside it. His movements were deliberate, not fussy, but carrying a kind of reverence, as though this simple meal were a gift.
She lowered herself into the chair, watching him pour coffee into his own mug. The faint steam rose between them, curling golden in the morning light. She took a tentative bite of toast, the butter warm against her tongue, and felt something she hadn't expected: a small swell of comfort in her chest.
It wasn't the food. It was him. The way he hadn't made her feel fragile, hadn't tiptoed around her, but simply offered care as naturally as breathing.
For a time, they ate in silence, the clink of forks and the faint hiss of the kettle filling the quiet. Sunlight slanted across the table, painting the wood in gold.
Then Lily's voice came, hesitant, as though she was afraid of shattering the calm. "Aaron?"
He looked up, his expression patient.
"Last night…" She stopped, chewing her lip. Her shoulders curled slightly inward. "I don't know how you can still look at me the same way. After all that."
Aaron set his fork down. His glowing eyes softened in the morning light, catching every flicker of her doubt. "Because I don't see last night as something ugly," he said. "I see it as you being brave enough to let me in. Do you know how much trust that takes?"
Her throat closed around a lump. She looked down at her plate, blinking fast. "I don't feel brave. I just feel… tired."
Aaron reached across the table, covering her hand with his own. His touch was warm, grounding. "Then be tired," he said quietly. "I'll be strong for both of us until you're ready again."
The words fell heavy but safe, like a blanket draped over her shoulders. She didn't answer at once, but her fingers curled faintly around his, holding on. For once, she let the silence stay, not filling it with apology or deflection.
The clock ticked softly on the wall. Outside, birds stirred in the garden, their voices carrying the first clear notes of morning.
When Lily finally lifted her gaze again, her eyes shimmered with something fragile but new—trust, tentative but growing.
The world, she realized, might never stop giving her battles. But maybe she didn't have to fight them all alone.
Later, after the dishes were cleared and the morning had fully settled, Aaron guided her into the garden. The grass was still damp from the night's rain, and the air carried the sweetness of jasmine and soil. Lily moved carefully, her crutches sinking slightly into the soft ground, but for once she didn't feel weighed down by the effort.
They sat together on the old wooden bench beneath the apricot tree, the sunlight warm against their faces. Aaron didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence filled the space between them, steady as the earth.
Lily closed her eyes, breathing in the clean air, letting the warmth seep into her bones. She leaned slightly into Aaron's shoulder, not fighting the urge to rest.
And in that gentle morning, with the world hushed around them, she understood something simple but unshakable: storms would come again, but so would mornings like this. And she wasn't alone in either.
The apricot tree shifted above them, its leaves trembling in the faint morning breeze. The light had grown brighter now, warm streaks spilling through the branches and catching in Aaron's hair, turning it into threads of pale fire. Lily leaned into him, her crutches laid gently in the grass at her side, and for once she didn't feel like the sound of her breathing filled the whole world.
They sat like that for a while—just listening. The distant coo of doves, the chatter of sparrows, the far-off hum of a neighbor's motorbike starting up. Ordinary sounds. Ordinary life.
Lily shifted slightly, careful not to jar his shoulder. "You don't have to sit out here with me all day, you know," she murmured.
Aaron tilted his head, giving her a sidelong glance, his eyes glowing faintly even in daylight. "And miss the honor of guarding the garden with you? Not a chance."
She huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."
"True," he said, grinning. "But I'm also stubborn, so you're stuck with me."
Her smile lingered, faint but real. The warmth of it surprised her—like sunlight finding a crack in the clouds.
The minutes stretched into a quiet rhythm. Aaron plucked a fallen leaf from the bench and began to spin it absently between his fingers. Lily watched, lulled by the motion, her thoughts drifting like the leaf itself.
"Do you ever think about…" She hesitated, then pressed on, her voice thin. "About before? About how things used to be?"
Aaron stilled, the leaf caught between his fingertips. He didn't answer right away, and she wondered if she'd made a mistake asking.
Finally, he exhaled softly. "Every day," he admitted. "But not the way I used to. It's not about wishing it back anymore. It's about… carrying it. Letting it shape me without crushing me."
Lily swallowed, the weight of his words settling into her chest. She stared down at her hands. "I don't know if I can do that."
Aaron turned, his hand brushing lightly against hers on the bench. "You don't have to know right now," he said. "You just have to keep breathing. The rest comes in its own time."
Her throat ached, but she nodded, blinking hard against the sting in her eyes.
A soft rustle pulled their attention—Carla's voice drifting faintly from the open kitchen window. The clatter of dishes followed, then the hum of the radio clicking on inside the house. The spell of silence shifted, not broken but softened into something more ordinary.
Aaron rose slowly, stretching his arms above his head before offering a hand down to Lily. "Come on. If we stay out here too long, Carla's going to scold us for letting the eggs get cold."
Lily rolled her eyes but took his hand anyway, letting him steady her as she reached for her crutches. Her legs felt heavy, but the warmth in her chest steadied her more than her grip on the handles.
Together, they moved back toward the house. The doorway yawned open, golden light spilling out into the garden, and for the first time in days, Lily felt herself moving not just through necessity but toward something. Toward safety. Toward belonging.
And though the shadows of last night still lingered at the edges of her mind, she realized she no longer feared being consumed by them. Not while Aaron was beside her.
The rest of the day passed in a gentle blur.
Lily spent the late morning in the living room with Carla, the two of them folding laundry together while Aaron hovered nearby, repairing a loose hinge on the window frame. The hum of the radio filled the background, broken now and then by the laughter of neighbors outside. There were no heavy conversations, no demands—just the quiet rhythm of tasks done side by side.
By afternoon, Lily felt steady enough to sit in the garden again, this time with a sketchbook balanced across her lap. Aaron brought her a cup of tea, setting it within reach without a word, then busied himself pruning the stubborn vines that had begun creeping along the fence. The hours unfolded slowly, and though shadows lengthened, they did so without menace.
Evening arrived with the smell of Carla's cooking filling the house, warm and spiced. They ate together—Lily, Aaron, Carla, and David—around the kitchen table. Conversation meandered between small things: the neighbor's dog who wouldn't stop barking, a story David remembered from his childhood, Carla's reminder to water the potted basil before it withered in the heat. Lily spoke little, but she listened, letting the familiar cadences weave around her.
By the time dishes were washed and the lamps turned low, the house had softened into that hushed stillness that only came after a long, shared day. Carla and David retired first, retreating upstairs with murmured goodnights. Lily followed soon after, her crutches tapping softly as Aaron walked beside her, ensuring she reached her room without strain.
She paused at her doorway, looking back at him. For a heartbeat, she seemed about to say something—but then she only gave a small nod, a silent thank-you, before slipping inside.
The house grew quieter still.
Aaron lingered in the living room, tidying what little there was left to do. He stacked the books on the coffee table, folded the blanket draped over the couch, checked the latch on the back door twice though he knew it was secure. His movements were slow, deliberate—rituals as much as tasks, a way to reassure himself that everything and everyone was safe.
At last, with nothing left to fuss over, he let himself sink onto the couch. The cushion sagged under his weight, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, exhaling a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
The quiet pressed in around him—not suffocating, but heavy all the same. His glowing eyes dimmed, casting only the faintest light across the room.
Images from the night before tried to surface—the raw edge of Lily's voice, the tremor of her hands, the way she had folded in on herself as though she could disappear. He swallowed hard, forcing them back down. She had trusted him. She had let him stay. That mattered more than anything.
He leaned back against the couch, head tilting toward the ceiling. "One day at a time," he murmured into the stillness. His voice was low, almost a prayer.
For a long while, he simply sat there, letting the hush of the house wrap around him. His body ached with exhaustion, but beneath it ran a quiet steadiness, a fragile sense of peace. He thought of Lily upstairs, finally safe in her bed, and let that thought settle into his bones.
When at last he rose, blowing out the lamp and heading toward his own room, he felt the weight of the day trailing behind him like a long shadow—but also the faintest glow of something softer. Something like hope.
And for the first time in a long while, when he lay down and closed his eyes, he let himself believe he might actually sleep.