The house was quiet that morning, emptied of its usual rhythm. Lily and David had left for their walk, the front door closing behind them with a faint click that seemed to draw every sound out of the rooms, leaving behind a silence Aaron felt down to the marrow.
Clara moved about the kitchen with her usual ease, slicing bread, setting tea to steep. Aaron lingered in the doorway, restless, hands shoved into his pockets as though to anchor them.
"You look like you've swallowed half a storm," Clara said without turning, her voice warm but perceptive.
Aaron's lips quirked faintly, though there was no humor in his eyes. He stepped forward and dropped into a chair, shoulders tight. "Didn't mean to hover."
"You weren't hovering," she said simply, pushing a cup toward him. "You were thinking. And you've been doing that more and more these days."
Her words landed heavier than he expected. He wrapped his hands around the tea, not drinking, just holding on to its warmth.
Outside, on the gravel path that wound through the trees, David walked beside his daughter, his steps unhurried. The morning sun broke in fragments through the canopy, spilling golden patches across the ground. Lily's crutches tapped their steady rhythm, her breath visible in the crisp air.
For a time, they walked in companionable silence. Then David glanced at her, his expression thoughtful.
"Lily," he said gently, "can I ask you something?"
She shot him a quick look, wary and curious. "Of course, Dad."
"It's about Aaron."
Her crutch caught on a stone, the tiniest stumble, but she corrected quickly. Still, David noticed the flush that rose on her cheeks, the way her gaze darted forward and stayed fixed on the path ahead.
"What about him?" she asked carefully, though her voice had a tremor she couldn't quite disguise.
Back in the kitchen, Aaron stared at the steam curling up from his cup, his words caught somewhere between his chest and his throat. Finally, he forced them out, rough and uneven.
"It's about Lily."
Clara didn't flinch. She set the knife down and folded her hands, her gaze steady. "Go on."
Aaron's fingers tightened around the cup until his knuckles whitened. "I came here to care for her. That's all it was supposed to be. To be steady, to help where I could. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being just… care."
He lifted his glowing eyes to meet hers, raw and vulnerable. "I think I'm falling in love with her, Clara. And it terrifies me."
David's mouth curved into a faint, knowing smile as he watched Lily fight to compose herself. "He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"
Her steps slowed. Her shoulders stiffened. For a long while, the only sound was the soft crunch of gravel beneath them. At last, she let out a breath, her voice low.
"Yes," she whispered. "He does."
David tilted his head, his tone gentle but direct. "More than just as your caregiver?"
Lily froze. Her crutches dug into the earth as she stood still, face turned downward, strands of hair falling to shield her cheeks. "Dad…"
He waited, patient as stone, his silence urging her forward without pressure.
Her next words tumbled out in a rush, hushed and trembling. "I don't know what to call it. But when he's near, I feel… safe. Like the weight I carry doesn't crush me as much. He listens in a way no one else ever has. And when he smiles at me…" She trailed off, biting her lip, her face hot with blush.
"I'm terrified of it," Aaron confessed in the kitchen, his voice cracking under the strain. He pressed a hand against his chest as if to hold himself together. "Every time I've loved something—really loved it—it's been torn away from me. My parents, my sister, my brother… even the simple idea of home. All of it ripped away. And if it happens again…" His throat closed, and he shook his head. "I don't think I could survive losing her too."
Clara's heart ached at the naked pain in his voice. She reached across the table and placed her hand gently over his, her touch steady, anchoring.
"Aaron," she said softly, "love isn't a theft waiting to happen. It's a gift. You don't protect yourself by shutting it away—you only double the loss. You lose it once to fear, and again to silence."
Aaron's lips trembled, his chest heaving with the effort to breathe. "But what if I hurt her? What if I can't be enough?"
Clara squeezed his hand. "You don't need to be perfect. You only need to be true. Lily doesn't need someone flawless—she needs someone who stays. And Aaron… you've stayed. That matters more than you know."
David listened to Lily, his chest tightening with tenderness. He reached out and set a hand on her shoulder, grounding her.
"Lily," he said, his voice low and sure, "there's nothing wrong with how you feel. Don't be ashamed of it."
She looked up at him then, her eyes wide, nervous. "But what if he doesn't feel the same? Or what if I'm just… one more responsibility to him?"
David shook his head, his voice firm with quiet conviction. "I've seen the way he looks at you. That isn't duty, and it isn't pity. It's something deeper. He's just afraid—afraid that love will cost him again. But don't mistake fear for the absence of feeling."
Her lips parted, surprise flickering across her face. Then, slowly, she whispered, "You really think he could feel that way?"
"I don't just think it," David said, his hand squeezing her shoulder. "I know it. And I know this too: love is always a risk. But sometimes, Lily, it's the most worthwhile risk we'll ever take."
She stood there in the morning light, her expression softening, her eyes shimmering with something like fragile hope. A smile, small and shy, tugged at her lips. "He really does mean everything to me," she admitted.
David's own smile was gentle, proud. "Then hold onto that. Let it grow. The rest will come in time."
Two conversations, spoken in different places but joined by the same thread, ended in silence heavy with possibility.
Back at the house, Clara released Aaron's hand, her gaze filled with a quiet certainty. "Trust yourself enough to let her see what I see."
Out on the path, David guided his daughter forward again, their footsteps falling back into rhythm, her crutches tapping out a beat that seemed lighter now, less burdened.
When father and daughter finally returned, their laughter floated through the garden and into the kitchen. Aaron looked up from the table, his eyes still red-rimmed but carrying something new—an ember of hope where there had only been fear.
Neither he nor Lily spoke, but when their eyes met across the room, something unspoken passed between them, fragile but real.
And for the first time, both of them began to believe that maybe love wasn't only a prelude to loss. Maybe, just maybe, it could be the reason to keep going.
The day unspooled gently, like thread pulled from a spool. After their walk, Lily settled into her favorite chair by the front window, book open on her lap. The pages turned every so often, but her eyes weren't really on the words. Instead, they strayed to the memory of the path, to her father's voice as he spoke with such quiet certainty.
He's just afraid… don't mistake fear for the absence of feeling.
Her cheeks warmed at the thought, and she pressed the spine of the book against her lips as if she could hide the smile forming there. Afraid. That was the word. She'd seen it too, hadn't she? The way Aaron sometimes looked at her, like she was both a gift and something he wasn't sure he deserved.
And though her stomach fluttered with the thrill of it, her chest also ached. What if it was only wishful thinking? What if she wanted too much from someone who had already given her more than anyone ever had?
She sighed and turned another page, though she couldn't have said what was written on it.
Aaron carried the weight of Clara's words all through the afternoon. They trailed him as he chopped vegetables for dinner, as he repaired the wobbly leg of the hallway table, even as he laughed—really laughed—at one of David's bad puns over the meal.
You've stayed. That matters more than you know.
The truth of it burned quietly in his chest. He'd never thought of himself as someone who stayed. Loss had made him restless, had hollowed out his faith in permanence. And yet… here he was, nearly a year later, still in this house, still walking the same hallways, still waking to the same familiar voices. Still here for her.
And the more he turned that thought over, the heavier it became. Because it wasn't just duty anymore, wasn't just responsibility. It was Lily herself—the tilt of her smile, the fierce intelligence in her eyes, the way her laughter seemed to chase the shadows from the room.
He was falling, and he knew it. And he was terrified.
By evening, the house had grown soft and dim, the lamps glowing golden against the encroaching dark. The scent of Clara's herbal tea lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the crisp edge of autumn that slipped in through the cracks of the windows.
Dinner was easy—too easy, Aaron thought, because it almost convinced him he wasn't unraveling inside. He smiled when Lily teased him about his unevenly chopped carrots, and he teased her back about her habit of underlining every other sentence in her books. For a while, he let himself sink into the warmth of it all, the sound of her laughter tucking itself into the corners of his chest like it belonged there.
When the meal ended and the dishes were washed, David and Clara retired early, their footsteps fading upstairs. The house hushed again, settling into night.
Lily lingered in the sitting room, wrapped in a blanket, her book propped open in her lap. But her gaze kept drifting to the window, where the faint shimmer of stars winked through the glass. She read the same line three times, not taking in a word.
Aaron moved quietly through the hall, restless, until finally he stepped out the back door. The porch groaned under his weight as he leaned against the railing, drawing in the cold night air. Above him, the stars sprawled wide and unyielding, sharp as diamonds.
He let his breath fog in the air, tried to steady the chaos in his chest. Clara's words echoed still: Love isn't a theft waiting to happen. It's a gift.
He wanted to believe that. God, he wanted to.
The faint tap-tap-tap of crutches startled him. He turned, and there she was—Lily, framed in the doorway. The lamplight spilled around her like a halo, softening her edges, casting a faint glow on the blanket draped over her shoulders.
"I thought you'd gone to bed," she said, her voice hushed, as though afraid to disturb the quiet.
"I could say the same to you," Aaron replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. His heart pounded hard enough he thought she might hear it.
She shifted her weight, the crutches steadying her. Her cheeks were faintly pink. "I… couldn't sleep. Too much on my mind, I guess."
He nodded slowly. "Me too."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was alive, humming with all the words neither of them dared to speak aloud. Aaron's eyes caught hers for just a moment too long, and in that moment he swore he saw it—the reflection of his own feelings mirrored back at him, shy but certain.
Lily broke first, glancing down, her lips curving into a small, nervous smile. "Goodnight, Aaron."
The sound of his name in her voice lodged itself in his chest. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. "Goodnight, Lily."
She turned back inside, the tap of her crutches fading down the hall, the door closing softly behind her.
Aaron stayed where he was, staring out at the stars. But now, for the first time in years, his heart didn't feel like a locked room. It felt like a door cracked open, letting in the smallest sliver of light.
Aaron lay in his own bed, staring up at the ceiling. The walls felt too close, the quilt too heavy, the silence too loud. Even after months in the Martes home, his room sometimes felt borrowed, like a space he'd been allowed to keep warm for a while but not truly inhabit. Sleep didn't come. His mind turned and twisted, replaying every word he'd spoken to Clara that morning, every beat of fear that had pulsed through him since.
Finally, he sat up with a low sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. Staying in bed felt impossible. His body carried too much restlessness, his chest too much weight. Quietly, he swung his legs over the side and padded toward the door, careful not to let the floorboards creak under his steps.
The hallway was dim, the whole house breathing its night rhythm. He passed by Lily's door — the faint glow of her night lamp casting a sliver of light along the floor — and descended the stairs. In the living room, the couch greeted him like an old companion. He dropped onto it with a tired huff, curling onto his side, his eyes half-closing. Slowly, his body began to surrender, though his thoughts were still a restless tide.
Upstairs, Lily stirred. She wasn't fully asleep, not yet — something in her had been restless, the same way his was. When she heard the faint tread of footsteps outside her door, her heart jumped. She pushed herself up, blinking against the soft light.
Her crutches stood waiting beside the bed. She reached for them carefully, trying not to make a sound as she stood. Step by careful step, she made her way out, biting her lip at the creak of one stair, her ears straining for signs that anyone else had stirred.
When she reached the bottom, she found him. Aaron, stretched across the couch, his long frame bent to fit, eyes closed but not in the heavy stillness of deep sleep.
She hesitated, leaning on her crutches, unsure. She could turn back, leave him be. But her feet stayed rooted, her chest tight with something unnamed.
Then his voice came, rough with drowsiness, soft as a sigh.
"...Lily?"
Her breath caught. "Sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to wake you."
He shifted, sitting up slowly, blinking at her in the dim light. "You didn't. Just… couldn't sleep." His hand rubbed at the back of his neck, sheepish. Then he patted the space beside him. "Come sit. Just for a bit?"
She hesitated only a moment before moving closer, lowering herself onto the couch. The cushion dipped under her weight, and suddenly the space between them felt impossibly small, filled with the warmth of his presence and the silence of words unsaid.
The quiet stretched. Her hands knotted in her lap; his thumb traced nervous circles against his palm. Their breaths filled the room in uneven rhythm, both hearts too loud in their chests.
Finally, Aaron exhaled shakily, the words bursting out before he lost the courage.
"I like you."
Her head snapped toward him, her eyes wide. He kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his voice trembling. "Not just as someone I care for, or someone I look after. It's more than that. It's been more for a long time. And I'm… I'm scared, Lily. Because everything I've loved before was taken from me. But with you, I can't—" He swallowed, his throat tight. "I can't stop feeling this way."
Silence. Then Lily's hand, tentative and trembling, brushed against his on the couch. Her cheeks burned, but her eyes were steady, shimmering in the dim light.
"Aaron…" She whispered his name like a secret. "I like you too."
The world tilted, softened. For the first time in years, Aaron felt the smallest flicker of hope not as something dangerous — but as something he might be allowed to keep.