"You're ready," Tenebrae says, and it's not a question.
We're standing in his garden one last time, the eternal twilight casting everything in shades of silver and shadow. Seven days—or what felt like seven days in the celestial realm—of intensive learning about pain, trauma, healing, and the delicate art of opening doors without forcing anyone through them.
Seven days that somehow feel both infinite and far too short.
"I don't feel ready," I admit, shouldering my bag.
Tenebrae's blood-red eyes study me with that unnerving intensity I've grown accustomed to over the past week.
"You never will," he says simply. "Readiness is not a destination you reach, Kairos. It's a choice you make in the moment, armed with whatever knowledge and compassion you've managed to gather."
I nod slowly, his words settling into the anxious space in my chest.
"Thank you," I say, and the words feel inadequate. "For everything. For taking the time to teach me. For being patient with my questions. For—"
"For helping you learn how to love someone without harming them in the process," Tenebrae finishes quietly.
"Yeah. That."
A small smile crosses his pale face—the third time I've seen him smile this entire week.
"You already knew how to love him, Kairos. I simply helped you understand how to hold that love carefully." He pauses, his expression growing more serious. "Remember what we discussed. About patience. About consistency. About creating safety rather than demanding vulnerability."
I think back to three days ago—or what felt like three days ago—when we'd spent hours discussing exactly that.
---
"Safety is not the absence of danger," Tenebrae had said, kneeling beside one of his dark flowers. "It's the presence of consistent, reliable care."
I'd been sitting on the grass, taking notes in a journal he'd provided. My hand cramped from writing but I didn't want to miss anything.
"What does that mean practically?" I'd asked.
"It means showing up. Every day. Even when it's difficult. Even when the person you love pushes you away or tests whether your care is conditional." He'd looked up at me. "Especially then."
"But what if I mess up? What if I say the wrong thing or push too hard or—"
"Then you apologize. You acknowledge the harm. You adjust your approach. And you continue to show up." His voice had been impossibly gentle. "Perfection is not required, Kairos. Only persistence."
I'd stared down at my notes, the weight of responsibility pressing on my shoulders.
"What if that's not enough? What if I do everything right and he still—" I couldn't finish the sentence.
"Still chooses pain over healing?" Tenebrae had finished for me. "Then you grieve that choice while continuing to offer safety. You cannot force someone to heal, Kairos. You can only make healing possible."
The words had terrified me then.
They still do now.
---
"I remember," I tell Tenebrae, pulling myself back to the present. "Patience. Consistency. Safety."
"And boundaries," he adds. "Do not forget boundaries. You cannot pour from an empty cup, and loving someone with deep trauma will drain you if you're not careful."
That lesson had come on day five, when I'd been exhausted and frustrated and ready to give up.
---
"I can't do this," I'd said, sitting with my head in my hands. "It's too much. Too complicated. I'm going to mess it up and hurt him and—"
"Stop."
Tenebrae's command had been sharp enough to cut through my spiral.
"You are catastrophizing. Imagining every possible negative outcome and treating them as inevitable." He'd settled beside me on the bench. "This is not helpful."
"But what if—"
"Kairos." He'd waited until I looked at him. "You will make mistakes. This is certain. But mistakes made with love and the genuine intention to help can be repaired. What cannot be repaired is abandoning someone because you're afraid of failing them."
"I already abandoned him once," I'd said quietly. "I left him a note and disappeared for a week."
"With the intention of learning how to help him better. That is not abandonment. That is preparation." Tenebrae's expression had softened. "Though I suspect he will not see it that way initially."
"He's going to be furious."
"Yes. Probably."
"And Dylan will be angry too. I lied to both of them."
"And you will apologize. Explain. Give them the choice to accept or reject that explanation." Tenebrae had gestured to the garden around us. "This week was necessary, Kairos. Trust that."
---
"I trust it," I say now, meeting Tenebrae's gaze. "I just hope they can eventually trust it too."
"Give them time. Give them space to be angry. Give them the choice of whether to accept your explanation." Tenebrae's voice is steady. "And remember—their anger is not rejection. It's a sign that they care enough to feel betrayed. That's actually progress."
The words are both comforting and terrifying.
"Anything else?" I ask.
Tenebrae considers for a long moment.
"Yes. One more thing." He moves closer, his pale hand resting briefly on my shoulder. "When the moment comes—and you will know when it comes—trust yourself. You have learned well, Kairos. You are more prepared than you believe."
My throat tightens. "Thank you. Really. I don't know how to repay—"
"Help him heal. That is payment enough." Tenebrae's blood-red eyes hold mine. "And perhaps, someday, teach someone else what you've learned here. Pain is a cycle, Kairos. Break it forward."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Go," Tenebrae says gently. "Your person needs you."
---
The transition from the celestial realm back to the mortal world is jarring as always.
Color floods back in. Sound returns—traffic, birds, the distant hum of the city waking up.
I check my phone for the first time in a week. 8:23 AM.
The screen lights up with notifications. Multiple messages from Dylan that I haven't read yet. I shove the phone back in my pocket without looking at them.
Not yet. I need to get home first. Need to see them with my own eyes before I process whatever's been happening this week.
That weird feeling in my chest—the one that's been growing steadily over the past hour—intensifies with each step.
Something's wrong.
I can feel it in my bones, in the way my heart is racing, in the anxious energy thrumming under my skin.
The familiar streets blur past.
The coffee shop where Cecil and I reunited. The park where we used to play as kids. The corner store where I'd grabbed snacks before movie nights.
Everything looks the same but feels different.
Because I'm different.
Seven days of intensive learning about pain and trauma and healing have changed something fundamental in how I see the world.
And I'm about to find out if that change is enough.
---
"What if I freeze?" I'd asked Tenebrae on the last day. "What if the moment comes and I can't remember anything you taught me?"
"Then you breathe. You ground yourself. And you remember the most important lesson." Tenebrae had looked at me steadily. "Love is not about perfect execution. It's about showing up with genuine care and the willingness to learn from your mistakes."
"But—"
"Kairos." He'd smiled that rare, gentle smile. "You love him. That love will guide you when memory fails. Trust it."
---
The apartment building comes into view.
My hands shake slightly as I unlock the main door and head for the elevator.
Third floor. Down the hall. Our door.
Home.
I stand outside for just a moment, key in hand, that strange feeling in my chest almost overwhelming now.
What if they're both furious? What if Cecil won't even look at me? What if—
Stop. Breathe. You can't help anyone if you spiral.
Tenebrae's voice, steady and calm in my memory.
I take a breath. Then another.
Then I unlock the door and step inside.
"I'm back!" I call out, trying to inject normalcy into my voice even though my heart is pounding.
The apartment is quiet. Quieter than it should be at this time of morning.
No sounds from the kitchen. No TV playing. No movement.
Just... silence.
I set my bag down carefully and move toward the living room.
And freeze.
Dylan is lying on the couch, his head propped up on one of the throw pillows.
And Cecil is curled against him, his head on Dylan's chest, completely asleep.
Dylan's hand is in Cecil's hair, stroking it gently, rhythmically. His eyes are closed but I can tell by his breathing that he's awake.
They look... peaceful. Safe.
Like they've been like this for a while.
Something in my chest tightens—not jealousy, exactly. More like... recognition.
This is what Cecil needed while I was gone.
This comfort. This safety. This presence.
And Dylan gave it to him.
I stand there for a long moment, not sure whether to say something or just leave them be.
Dylan's eyes open slowly, like he sensed my presence.
When he sees me, his expression doesn't change. Doesn't smile. Doesn't glare.
Just... looks at me.
Carefully, so as not to wake Cecil, Dylan extracts himself and stands. He gestures toward the kitchen with his head—a silent 'we need to talk'.
I nod and follow him, moving as quietly as possible.
In the kitchen, Dylan leans against the counter and crosses his arms. The careful blankness on his face is more unsettling than anger would be.
"You're back," he says quietly.
"Yeah." I keep my voice low. "I—"
"Not here." Dylan glances toward the living room where Cecil is still sleeping. "He needs rest. We'll talk later."
"Dylan, I'm sorry—"
"I said later." His voice is still quiet, still controlled, but there's an edge to it now. "Right now, all that matters is that you're back and he's safe."
Safe.
The word catches my attention.
"Is he okay?" I ask, and I can't keep the worry out of my voice.
Dylan's jaw tightens. "No. He's not okay. But he's safe. For now."
The implication hangs heavy in the air.
He wasn't safe. Something happened. And I wasn't here for him.
"What—"
"Later, Keith." Dylan's expression is firm. "Let him sleep. He barely slept at all last night."
I want to demand answers. Want to know what happened, why Cecil barely slept, what the hell I missed while I was gone.
But Dylan's right. Cecil needs rest.
And I need to respect that, even when every instinct is screaming at me to go wake him up and apologize and explain and—
Patience. Consistency. Safety.
"Okay," I say finally. "Later."
Dylan nods, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
"There's coffee," he says, gesturing to the pot. "Help yourself. I'm going back to the couch."
He moves past me, back toward where Cecil is sleeping.
I pour myself coffee I don't really want and lean against the counter, staring out the kitchen window.
I'm home.
Cecil is here. Safe, according to Dylan. But not okay.
And whatever happened while I was gone—whatever made Dylan say Cecil "barely slept at all last night"—is something I'm going to have to face.
Soon.
You're more prepared than you were a week ago, I remind myself. Trust that. Trust the love.
I take a sip of coffee and wait.
For Cecil to wake up.
For the conversation that will determine everything.
For the chance to prove that leaving for a week—as painful as it was for all of us—was the right choice.
Even if it doesn't feel like it yet.
The weird feeling in my chest hasn't gone away.
If anything, it's stronger now.
Like a warning I can't quite decipher.
But I push it down and focus on the present moment.
I'm home.
Cecil is safe.
And whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
All three of us.
The way it should be.