The sunlight was already spilling through the curtains when Aaron stirred awake, the warm glow casting long stripes across the floorboards. He lay still for a moment, listening to the faint hum of the ceiling fan and letting the day seep slowly into his bones. Normally, mornings in this place were quiet—Lily would still be wrapped in blankets at this hour, breathing slow and even, the world outside carrying on without either of them.
But today, something was different. There was a faint shuffle of movement coming from the kitchen. The rhythmic tap of crutches against tile.
He frowned lightly, rubbing the grit from his eyes as he pushed himself upright. The air smelled faintly of tea—her tea—soft and floral, something she always made when she wanted a slow, peaceful start to the day.
Padding down the short hallway, he found her standing near the counter, balanced neatly on her crutches. Her hair was brushed into loose waves that caught the sunlight filtering through the window, and her clothes were already picked out—a light sweater and jeans, casual but deliberate. She glanced up when she heard him, and for just a second, her cheeks colored faintly, like she'd been rehearsing what she was about to say.
"You're… up early," he said, leaning against the doorway. His voice was still thick from sleep, his hair tousled from the pillow.
Lily smiled faintly, though there was a trace of nerves there. "Yeah. I was kind of hoping to ask you something before you got busy."
Aaron raised an eyebrow, half teasing. "Should I be worried?"
She shook her head quickly, her earrings catching the light. "No! It's just—well—it's Saturday, and the farmer's market is open today." She hesitated, glancing down at the tile for a moment before meeting his eyes again. "I haven't been in… ages. I thought… maybe we could go?"
The words sat between them for a moment.
Aaron's chest tightened—not in a bad way, not exactly, but in that familiar way that came when certain places, certain situations stirred up things he'd rather keep buried. Crowds. Voices overlapping. Music from one direction, a barking dog from another. The clatter of too many footsteps, the hum of too many conversations. It always set his pulse racing, his senses straining to keep track of everything.
He could already feel the instinct rising in him—to shake his head, to offer some polite excuse about errands, or being tired, or needing to catch up on work.
But then he saw it—that spark in her eyes, the way her weight shifted slightly forward on her crutches, almost like she was leaning toward the idea herself. She was excited. She was hoping.
"Farmer's market, huh?" he murmured, scratching the back of his neck like he could rub away the hesitation.
She nodded, a bit more timid now, as if she could already sense his reluctance. "They have fresh fruit, and pastries, and… you know, little handmade things. You might like it."
He paused. Too long. Long enough for her smile to falter just slightly. And in that tiny drop of expression—barely there—something inside him made the choice for him.
"Alright," he said finally, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Let's go see what all the fuss is about."
Her face lit up again, the earlier flicker of doubt gone in an instant. "Really?"
"Really," he confirmed. He tried to make it sound casual, but inside, his stomach still twisted at the thought of weaving through all those people.
Still… if she wanted to go, if it meant that much to her—he could do it.
They were out the door within the hour, the faint scent of Lily's lavender shampoo still lingering in the air as Aaron locked up behind them. The morning was cool, the kind that carried a hint of warmth beneath it—like the day hadn't quite decided what it wanted to be yet.
The drive to the nearby town was short, the car humming steadily along the winding road. On either side, green fields rolled out in gentle waves, still wearing the golden haze of early morning. Here and there, the dew caught the sun, flashing bright like shards of glass scattered across the grass.
Lily sat in the passenger seat, her crutches tucked neatly by her knees, her eyes darting from one side of the road to the other. She kept up a gentle stream of chatter, her voice light and almost musical.
"Oh—look at that tree! The one with the top leaning over like it's tired. That's been there since I was a kid. I used to think a giant had stepped on it."
Aaron glanced at it, a small huff of a laugh escaping him. "You were a weird kid."
"Still am," she said with a grin, unbothered. Then, without missing a beat, "And that fence—see it?—with the bright blue paint. Someone always touches it up before market season. I wonder if it's the same family doing it every year."
He didn't answer right away, but he found himself smiling faintly as she continued. There was something grounding about the way she noticed everything, the way she claimed small details like they were treasures worth keeping.
A lone hawk circled high overhead. Lily pointed it out, her voice dipping softer. "See? Right there—just gliding. Barely moving its wings. I always thought they looked free like that."
Aaron kept his eyes on the road, but he nodded. "Yeah. Free."
He didn't tell her that part of him envied that bird—that part of him sometimes wished he could just ride the air and leave everything behind. Instead, he let her voice fill the quiet spaces in his head, each word pulling him away from the darker corners of his thoughts.
The town began to emerge ahead, its rooftops catching the light. Somewhere in the distance, faint strains of music drifted through the open car windows, mixing with the scent of fresh bread and roasting coffee. Aaron's stomach tightened, but he kept driving.
Lily turned to him, her eyes bright. "Almost there."
He gave her a small nod, his hands tightening on the wheel. "Yeah. Almost."
The market was already bustling when they arrived. Canvas awnings stretched in rows down the main street, bright splashes of red, yellow, and green swaying gently in the morning breeze. Each stall overflowed with color—baskets brimming with apples and pears so polished they looked painted, glass jars of golden honey catching the light like captured sunlight, and bundles of rosemary and thyme tied with rough twine, their fragrance curling through the air.
The sounds came all at once: the bark of vendors calling out prices, the low hum of overlapping conversations, the clink of coins being exchanged, and somewhere deeper in the crowd, a burst of laughter that made Aaron's shoulders tense.
Too many voices. Too much motion. Too much all at once.
He caught himself scanning the crowd, the edges of his awareness sharpening in that old, restless way—counting faces, watching for movement. It was instinct, not choice. The air felt heavier here, pressed down by a closeness he couldn't quite shake.
Then Lily's hand brushed his arm. Just a light touch—barely there—but it was enough to drag his attention back to her.
She was pointing toward a stall where rows of handmade pottery sat in neat lines—smooth mugs with swirling glazes, shallow bowls painted in earthy tones, tiny planters with cheerful painted flowers. Her eyes had gone bright, almost childlike.
"Look at these! They'd make perfect little planters."
Aaron let the tension ease just a fraction, his mouth twitching into something close to a smile. "You've got enough plants already, don't you?"
"You can never have too many," she shot back without hesitation, starting toward the stall with an eager hobble, her crutches clicking against the cobblestones.
He followed at her pace, weaving through the flow of people, keeping her in his line of sight. She crouched slightly to peer at a small pot shaped like a cat, her fingers tracing the glaze.
"You're already picturing where you'd put it, aren't you?" he asked.
Her grin widened. "Windowsill in the kitchen. Maybe with basil. Or mint. Or—ooh—lavender."
"You're going to run out of windowsills one day," he said, but there was no bite in it—just a quiet fondness he didn't try to hide.
They drifted from stall to stall—Lily leading, Aaron trailing close behind. She stopped to finger the edge of a deep blue scarf, holding it up to her neck before laughing and setting it back down. At the next stall, a fruit vendor sliced a pear and offered her a piece. She took a bite, her eyes closing briefly.
"Oh, that's good. Here—try some." She held the slice toward Aaron, who hesitated before leaning in to take it.
The taste was crisp and sweet, juice running down his tongue. He gave a small nod. "Not bad."
"Not bad," he says.
"That's practically a rave review from you," she teased, bumping him lightly with her shoulder.
They moved on. Lily waved to an older woman behind a table stacked with jars of spiced jam, exchanging a few friendly words that Aaron barely caught. For a while, he let the noise fade into the background, focusing instead on the way sunlight caught in her hair, turning it warm and gold, and the faint trace of lavender that seemed to follow her like a promise.
Then they passed a baker's stall.
A wave of warmth and sugar drifted out from the display—fresh cinnamon rolls, their golden spirals glistening under a thin glaze. The scent was rich and familiar, achingly familiar, and before Aaron could pull back, the world shifted.
It was no longer the market around him. He was eleven again, knees tucked up in the back seat of the car, the late afternoon sun spilling across the dashboard. His mother was smiling in the rearview mirror as she handed forward a plate of cinnamon rolls wrapped in a dish towel, the steam still curling from their surface. His sister was laughing—full and bright—about something his father had just said, and his father's quiet humming wove between their voices, steady and safe.
The car was warm. The cinnamon-sugar smell was everywhere, sinking into the fabric of the seats, into his hair, into him. He could almost taste it on his tongue.
And then—metal screaming. Glass shattering. A burst of fire blooming far, far too fast—
Aaron's breath snagged. The ground beneath him tilted, as though the whole market had shifted sideways.
"Aaron?" Lily's voice cut through, close but hesitant. "Hey—hey, are you okay?"
Her voice was an anchor, but it was fraying fast. The cinnamon smell was still there—too much, too close. The market noise swelled around him, every laugh and shout and clatter of coins jabbing like needles into his skull. The air had thickened in his lungs, heavy and damp, as if he were breathing through water.
He shook his head sharply, not trusting his voice.
"Aaron?" she tried again, softer now, and he could hear her crutches shift against the cobblestones as she stepped toward him.
But he was already moving—fast at first, then faster—away from the stalls, away from her voice, away from that scent that had hooked into the back of his mind and dragged him under.
"Aaron, wait!"
Her words barely reached him over the pounding in his ears. The market was suddenly too narrow, too crowded, every person another obstacle, every scent another trap. The cinnamon still clung to him, following, pressing, and he pushed harder through the crowd, desperate for air that didn't taste like memory.
Somewhere behind him, Lily called his name again.
He didn't turn back.
He didn't stop until he was in the neighboring park, tucked behind the wide stone base of a water fountain. The chatter of the market had faded into distant hums, the kind of sound that feels like it's underwater, muffled and unreal. But his chest was still tight, the breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his heart.
He sank down onto the cool grass, folding his knees to his chest, burying his face there as the tears came—slow at first, then gathering speed like rain breaking through a dry spell. They burned their way free, tracing silent trails down his cheeks, soaking into the fabric of his worn jeans.
Minutes slipped by, stretched thin in the quiet, before the soft tap-tap of crutches on stone reached his ears.
"Aaron?" Lily's voice was gentle but steady, the kind of quiet that carries without demanding. She'd found him. Of course she had.
Without waiting for permission, she lowered herself onto the grass beside him, her presence a calm anchor in the storm of his thoughts.
"You scared me," she said quietly, eyes tracing the outline of his hunched shoulders. "One minute you were fine, and the next you were gone."
"I'm fine," he mumbled into his knees, voice rough and small.
She let out a short, humorless laugh—no judgment there, just understanding. "You don't look fine."
He shook his head slowly, a fragile shake that said too much. "You don't need to know every little thing, Lily. It's… it's not your problem."
"Not my problem?" she repeated, a flicker of something fierce shining through her softness. "Aaron, you live with me. You're my friend. If something's hurting you, I think that makes it my problem."
He let out a shaky breath, the kind that tries to steady a storm inside. "It's just—something reminded me of… before. That's all."
She didn't push, didn't ask for details he wasn't ready to share. Instead, her hand found his back, resting there lightly—warm, steady, and sure.
"You could've just told me. I wouldn't have pushed you to stay."
"I didn't want to ruin it for you," he said, voice low, hesitant like a secret slipping out.
Lily was quiet a moment, then smiled softly, the kind of smile that holds no blame, only hope. "You didn't ruin anything. I'd rather spend the day sitting here with you than wandering that market without you."
He glanced at her then, meeting her unwavering gaze—something in it like a promise, unspoken but clear.
"Come on," she said after a beat, voice a gentle invitation. "Let's go home."
By the time they stepped through the front door, the air in the house felt almost too still. The quiet should have been a relief after the market's chaos, but for Aaron, it pressed in on him like a heavy blanket.
Lily gave him a small smile, leaning on her crutches. "I'm gonna head upstairs for a bit," she said, her voice light but tired. "Just to rest my legs."
He nodded without meeting her eyes. "Yeah. Sure."
When she disappeared up the staircase, the silence deepened. He sank onto the couch, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced tight. His mind replayed the day in jagged fragments—the stalls, the voices, the smell, the way he'd walked away without a word.
I ruined it. She was having fun and I just… shut down.
The thought spiraled. His chest ached with the kind of hollow, gnawing fear he knew too well. First my family. Then the friends who couldn't deal with my mess. Now her. She'll see I'm broken. She'll decide it's too much. She'll leave.
He didn't notice the sound of her crutches on the stairs. Didn't hear her cross the living room floor.
Until suddenly, arms slid around his shoulders from behind—warm, certain, holding on like she meant to anchor him to the earth. Her crutches clattered to the floor, forgotten.
Aaron's breath caught, a sharp gasp pulling him back into the present.
Something shifted—no, broke—inside him. Not in the way that hurt, but in the way a locked door gives way. The walls he had spent years building, stone by stone, cracked under the weight of her simple, wordless presence. And for the first time since the accident, he felt the smallest thread of freedom tugging loose from the knot in his chest.
He reached for her hands, holding them gently as if they were something fragile. Then, leaning forward, he bent to pick up the crutches, still without letting go of her fingers.
They stood there for a long moment, facing each other. No words, just the quiet hum of shared breath. Her gaze didn't pity him—it understood him. That alone was enough to steady him.
"You didn't do anything wrong today," she said at last, her voice calm, certain. "We can always go back to the market tomorrow… if you want."
Something in his throat tightened, but he managed a nod. "Yeah. Maybe."
Dinner was quiet but not strained—simple bowls of pasta, the clink of cutlery filling the spaces where words weren't needed. Afterwards, they climbed the stairs together in the warm lamplight.
At her door, Lily paused. "Aaron?"
He turned.
"It's alright," she said, and in her voice, the word alright sounded like something solid enough to stand on.
He didn't reply, but she didn't seem to need him to.
They parted for the night, each retreating into their own room. The house settled into stillness, and outside, the last light of day slipped quietly away.
Aaron sat on the edge of his bed, the room dim except for the thin slice of moonlight slipping through the curtains. He hadn't changed out of his clothes yet—hadn't even really moved since coming in.
The house was silent, but his mind… quieter than he expected. Not silent—never silent—but the storm had eased into a gentler rain.
He kept replaying the moment downstairs. The sound of her crutches falling. The warmth of her arms around him. How she hadn't said What's wrong? or Snap out of it—just been there.
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, letting the memory wash over him again. For years, touch had felt like a thing he couldn't trust—too easily taken away, too easily turned cold. But her hug… it hadn't asked anything from him. It had simply said, I see you. I'm not going anywhere.
He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The ache in his chest was still there, but it felt different now. Less like a wound, more like a bruise—tender, but healing.
His eyes drifted shut. He thought of her last words at the door.
It's alright.
And for the first time in years, he almost believed it.
The house held its quiet, and he let himself sink into it, until sleep finally came.