The room felt different that night.
It wasn't just the dimmed lights or the soft hum of the ceiling fan.
It wasn't even the quiet scent of lavender that Mrs. Lazaro insisted on putting it in my room.
It was the space itself, the way it seemed to wait, patient, as if it had known all along that I would need this.
Calix was sitting on the edge of the bed, quietly reading a book.
I watched him from the doorway for a moment, taking in the curve of his shoulders, the way the soft light fell on his face.
He didn't notice me staring.
He never did.
For the first time, I didn't feel anger toward him.
I didn't feel the sharp sting of betrayal, or the icy wall I'd held up around my heart.
I felt… calm.
I took a step inside, my crutches tucked away in the corner. "You're still here," I said softly.
He looked up, surprised. Then he smiled. "I promised I wouldn't leave."
I nodded, walking closer. "I know."
The silence between us wasn't heavy.
It wasn't tense.
It was full, full of everything we hadn't said, all the apologies, all the fears, all the pain. And somehow, that silence felt like the safest place in the world.
"You can stay," I said suddenly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Tonight."
He blinked. "Here?"
"Yes," I said, settling onto the bed and leaning against the pillows. "We can… just be here. Together. For the night. It's fine."
His smile was quiet, almost shy.
He sat down beside me, careful not to crowd the small space.
His hand brushed mine, a gentle, tentative touch.
I didn't pull away.
Minutes passed in silence.
The kind that felt like comfort rather than punishment.
He didn't speak, and I didn't either.
I could feel his warmth, steady and real, and I let myself breathe a little easier than I had in weeks.
Finally, he spoke. "I missed this. Missed us being… just us."
I looked at him, letting my gaze linger. "Me too."
It was strange to admit.
To say aloud that I missed him, that I wanted his presence beside me.
But I did. I had missed it.
The quiet, the patience, the simple weight of him near me.
"I was afraid," I admitted softly. "Afraid that letting you in would only hurt me again."
He tilted his head, studying me. "I won't hurt you, Aurora. Not anymore. I swear."
His words were quiet, earnest.
And this time, I believed him.
I let my head fall against his shoulder.
Just for a moment.
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
He simply held me, letting me feel that maybe, just maybe, this could be different.
And it was different.
I closed my eyes, listening to the faint rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear.
A simple, steady drum that made the world feel softer, smaller, safer.
I'd never known closeness like this.
Not with anyone.
Not even my own family.
But here it was.
Quiet.
Gentle.
Healing.
We didn't talk.
We didn't need to.
There were no promises yet, no declarations.
Just the soft weight of presence, the brush of a hand, the shared warmth of two people who had hurt too much to risk anything… but were risking it anyway.
I felt like maybe love didn't have to be loud or grand.
Maybe it could be like this: quiet, patient, and steady.
And as the night stretched on, I realized that I wanted to stay here.
With him. In this fragile, tentative, perfect closeness.
I let my head rest there a little longer, my fingers brushing against his.
The gentle pulse of life next to me, steady and true, told me what words never could:
I was safe.
I was seen.
I was not alone.
And for the first time in a long, long time, that felt like enough.