I wasn't sure what I expected when Calix's parents insisted I move into their house.
Maybe pity.
Maybe obligation.
Maybe an attempt at control, the kind of gesture my own parents specialized in, wrapped in politeness and pressure.
But when we arrived, I realized it wasn't any of those things.
Their home wasn't like the ones I grew up in.
It wasn't built for show or for business gatherings.
It was warm now.
Lived in.
The air smelled faintly of fresh bread and flowers, not perfume or expensive polish.
It was the kind of place where silence didn't feel like punishment.
Calix helped me out of the car carefully, his hand lingering near my elbow in case I lost balance.
My crutches pressed against the gravel driveway as we walked to the entrance.
When the door opened, Mrs. Lazaro stood there, smiling. A real smile, not the tight, rehearsed kind my mother used to wear at galas and when we first met. "You're finally here," she said softly, her voice full of warmth that caught me completely off guard. "We've prepared your room already."
I blinked. "My room?"
"Of course," she said, touching my arm gently. "You need space to rest. And don't worry, it's right across from Calix's."
For a moment, I just stared at her.
I wasn't used to this, the softness in her tone, the way she spoke as if she cared, not because she had to but because she wanted to.
"Thank you," I managed to say, my voice quieter than usual.
She nodded, guiding me inside. "Come, dinner's almost ready."
The house was warm, in color, in air, in spirit.
Wooden floors, pale curtains, a faint hum of music somewhere from the living room.
It didn't feel like a mansion.
It felt like a home.
And I didn't know what to do with that.
All my life, I had been taught that houses were just façades, structures meant to reflect power, discipline, perfection.
The Aquino estate had never felt alive.
It was sterile, too clean, too organized.
But here, framed photographs lined the hallways.
Pictures of Calix as a child, messy, smiling, imperfect. His mother, laughing in one, her arm around him.
His father, younger, holding him during what looked like his first riding competition.
I stopped in front of one.
A genuine smile curved Calix's mouth, the same one I'd only started to see recently.
"You were cute," I murmured without thinking.
He chuckled beside me. "I still am."
I rolled my eyes, but my lips twitched anyway.
Dinner was… strange.
Not because of the food, that was delicious, but because of the feeling.
The way Mrs. Lazaro asked about my recovery, about Celeste, about the competition, not as a critique but as a mother genuinely wanting to know how I was.
"You must have been exhausted," she said, concern shadowing her face. "I saw the footage. That fall looked terrible."
"It wasn't the first," I replied.
She frowned gently. "Still, it must have hurt."
I didn't know how to respond to that.
Nobody had ever said those words to me before, not without turning it into a lesson about strength or expectation.
Calix's father smiled from across the table. "You're strong, Aurora. But it's alright to rest. Even champions need time to heal."
Rest.
Heal.
Two words that had never existed in my household.
I nodded slowly, unsure of what to say.
Calix glanced at me and smiled faintly, as if to say, See? This is what care looks like.
—
Later that night, I sat on the balcony outside my room, a blanket draped over my legs. The garden below glowed softly under the warm light spilling from the house.
I could hear faint laughter from the living room, Calix talking with his parents.
I didn't join them.
I didn't know how to.
But listening to them, hearing that kind of gentle noise, felt strangely comforting.
My phone lay on the small table beside me.
I stared at the screen.
No new messages.
No calls.
Nothing from my parents since the hospital.
Maybe they didn't care.
Maybe they were angry.
Maybe both.
A dull ache tightened in my chest, the kind that comes not from loss but from the quiet realization that you were never really loved in the first place.
Then, a soft knock on the door.
"Come in," I said.
Calix stepped in, holding two mugs. "Hot chocolate. My mom swears by it."
I eyed it suspiciously. "I don't drink sweet stuff."
He grinned, setting one down beside me. "Then you'll hate this. She adds too many marshmallows."
I stared at the floating white puffs, then took a small sip anyway.
It was warm.
Silky.
Sweet in a way that made my throat tighten.
"Good?" he asked.
I nodded slowly. "It tastes like… peace."
He chuckled. "That's a first."
I smiled faintly, looking out into the garden again. "Your parents are kind."
"They like you," he said softly. "They've been worried."
My brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because they see you trying so hard to carry everything alone," he said. "They just want to make sure you know you don't have to."
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I'd spent my whole life surrounded by people who demanded more, who reminded me constantly that I was never enough. And here were two strangers, people I barely knew, offering care without condition.
It was foreign.
It was terrifying.
But it felt… safe.
I looked down at the mug in my hands and whispered, "It's strange."
"What is?"
"This," I said softly. "Feeling wanted without having to earn it."
Calix didn't reply.
He just reached over and brushed his fingers against mine, a small gesture that didn't demand anything, it simply was.
And for the first time in a long, long while, I let myself feel it.
Not perfection.
Not expectation.
Just warmth.