His fingers tightened gently around mine, grounding and sure, as if he knew I needed something solid to hold onto in the quiet unraveling of this night.
"I will," he said, voice soft but certain, like a vow whispered to the stars. Then, after a breath, he added— "Always. I promise." There was no hesitation in him. No flourish, no dramatic pause. Just the quiet truth of a man who meant every word with the weight of his whole heart.
And before I could even respond, before the moment could slip away into silence, he leaned in and sealed that promise the only way that felt right. With a kiss. It wasn't rushed or showy—it was deliberate, reverent. A kiss that didn't just speak of affection, but of devotion.
His lips brushed mine like a tether to something real, and for one suspended second, the world faded—leaving only the two of us, and a sky full of stars bearing witness.
Chapter Twenty: A Dance Through the Fog
Two months had passed since that night beneath the Gemini moon, and in that time, Liam and I had quietly, almost unknowingly, begun stitching our lives together. Not with fireworks or declarations, but with the subtle, sacred threads of shared routines and quiet companionship.
The whirlwind of first dates had softened into something more grounded, more intimate. Our mornings started at the little café on the corner, where the barista no longer asked for our order—just greeted us with a knowing smile and two steaming mugs placed side by side. I'd take mine with cinnamon, Liam with a dash of cream and one sugar. We'd sit by the window, not alwaystalking, but always present—his knee brushing mine beneath the table, his smile unfolding slowly like morning light.
Everything happened here, in my space. Liam never pushed, even though I knew he wanted me to see his world, his shelves of star maps and scattered notes, the telescope near his window, the worn couch he swore had a gravitational pull of its own. He'd invited me—more than once—but each time I smiled and said,"Soon."
He never asked again.
So we built our rhythm within the walls of my home. We cooked together in my tiny kitchen—if you could call it cooking. He tried teaching me how to bake, claiming that combining flour and stardust could cure anything. We bumped elbows, dropped utensils, laughed too loud when the pasta overboiled or when his "galactic cookies" collapsed into buttery craters.
Afterward, we'd drift to the couch, the one he claimed was "ours" now, settling close under a shared blanket, the warmth of his body a kind of gravity I always gave into. We'd put on old films—black and white classics, or space operas he knew every line of—and sometimes we barely watched, too caught up in quiet conversation or comfortable silence.
And quietly, respectfully, my dad gave us space. Not in words but in all the ways that mattered. He began spending more time in the garden or at the library, leaving the house with a soft smile and a gentle pat on my shoulder. He knocked before entering a room that used to be his to walk into. Sometimes, he'd pass us curled up together and give Liam a nod that said,I see you. I trust you.Other times, he'd simply leave two mugs of tea outside my door, like offerings to the life we were building. He nevermade us feel watched. Instead, he offered us the silent kind of blessing only a father could give—distance and faith.
But despite that, we never made it past kissing. Not because the moments weren't electric—they were. Sometimes, his lips on mine felt like the world falling still, like time forgetting to move forward. But something in me wasn't ready for more. Not yet. There were still parts of me that flinched at touch, ghosts that lingered beneath my skin, memories I hadn't fully made peace with.
And Liam—sweet, patient Liam—never once pushed. Not even with his eyes. He didn't ask, didn't linger too long, didn't let the silence turn heavy with expectation. He simply held me close when I needed to be held, and kissed me slow when I forgot how to breathe. And when I pulled away, or let my hand fall from his, he always met me with the same soft look that said,"Take your time . I'm not going anywhere."
Like the quiet kind of gentleman that doesn't announce his goodness—just lives it.
Aaron's letters and texts continued to arrive, though less frequently now—like echoes of a storm that had long passed but still carried the scent of rain. Each message was careful, measured, apologetic in tone, though never begging. Just... there. A reminder of a love I once held like a burning ember, now cool in my palms.
I didn't ignore them, not entirely. I read them quietly, in the stillness of the afternoon, usually alone, the way one might read old diary entries or faded postcards from a life that no longer felt like their own. And strangely, I wasn't angry anymore. Not the way I used to be. That blistering fury—the ache that used to riselike bile whenever I thought of him, of her, of all the betrayals stacked like dominoes—had dulled into something softer. Not forgiveness, not quite. But no longer a wound that throbbed when touched. Just a quiet sadness. A distant ache that only stirred when I allowed myself to remember.
My father remained the unspoken line of communication. I had told him about the letters, about the occasional gifts left on our doorstep—books Aaron knew I loved, a scarf I'd once admired in a shop window, a framed photo from a happier year. My dad never encouraged it, never scolded me either. When I asked him once, offhandedly, if Aaron seemed alright, he looked at me for a long moment before answering, "He's... healing. Says he's in therapy. Says he's waiting for you." I didn't respond. I didn't send messages back. I didn't ask for updates. I chose, instead, to focus on the life I was building now.
The day of the gala arrived with a crispness in the air that hinted at the approaching change of seasons. The nursing home had transformed for the occasion. Soft lighting bathed the common areas, casting a warm glow over the residents and their families. The scent of fresh flowers mingled with the faint aroma of perfume and cologne. A string quartet played gentle melodies in the background, adding to the atmosphere of elegance and nostalgia.
Liam was wearing a tuxedo that fit him like a secret he hadn't meant to share—sharp lines, midnight black, the kind of elegance that made heads turn for all the right reasons. He looked beautiful in the way that only someone truly kind can—his awkward grace still peeking through the polish, his smile unsure when he caught me staring.
And I did stare. I was wearing the yellow dress he had bought for me months ago, soft and flowing like sunlight held together by thread. I remember the way he'd handed it to me, bashful, saying it reminded him of a comet—"bright, rare, and a little impossible to look away from." I had laughed then, told him he was getting wilder with the metaphors. Tonight, though, as the hem brushed the floor and his eyes lingered on me longer than necessary, I believed every word.
When we arrived at the party, his mother greeted us at the door. "Richard," she beamed, her voice warm with recognition, eyes bright as she reached for Liam's hands. "You look so handsome tonight."
Liam didn't flinch. He never did anymore. He simply smiled, softly, and leaned forward so she could kiss his cheek. "Hi, dear."
She was radiant in her own right—dressed in a deep lavender gown, her silver hair pinned neatly, her lipstick carefully applied. There was a regal grace about her, a kind of quiet dignity that remained untouched by time and illness. She stood tall, proud, as if the memory of who she had been still lived in her posture, if not always in her words.
I watched them, two souls quietly tethered by time and tenderness. A son and a mother bound not only by blood, but by memory, by ritual, by love that had weathered illness and silence and all the strange reshaping that grief demands. She still called him Richard. And Liam... he let her. He never corrected her.
It used to unsettle me—the way he vanished into that role with such ease. But now, watching the gentle curve of his smile, the way he tilted his head slightly so she could adjust his tie as if it were a long-practiced routine, I understood something quieter.It wasn't pretense. It was kindness. Mercy. Love in its purest, most patient form.
She turned her gaze to me then, her eyes warm with recognition, even if her timeline blurred.
"And this," she said softly, reaching for my hand, "is your friend?"
Liam didn't miss a beat. "Yes," he said gently, his voice steady, a small smile blooming at the corners of his lips. " This is June."
As the evening unfolded, I observed the delicate balance between honoring the past and embracing the present. Residents danced with their loved ones, some moving with the fluidity of memories long cherished, others with hesitant steps, guided by the familiar rhythm of a song. The caregivers moved gracefully among the guests, ensuring everyone felt included and cherished.
