Morning sunlight filtered through the kitchen window, soft and golden, glinting off the teacups on the table. The world outside was quiet — the low hum of bees in the garden, the distant chirp of birds just beyond the fence. Inside, the air smelled faintly of toast and lavender soap.
Lily sat by the window, sketchbook open on her lap. A mug of tea steamed gently beside her, the rising curls of vapor catching the light like tiny ribbons. Aaron leaned against the counter, finishing his own cup, the edges of his scarf trailing lazily over his shoulder.
It was peaceful — that quiet kind of morning that felt earned.
A year ago, almost to the day, he had met her for the first time. He still remembered it as if it had happened yesterday — the gray sky, the sharp scent of rain in the air, and that cruel laughter that had cut through the park like a knife. He'd seen her then: small, frightened, trembling but unbroken. Her crutches thrown aside, her voice shaking as she told them to stop.
Even now, he could feel the echo of that moment — the flare of anger, the way his pulse had thundered when she'd fallen. He hadn't even thought before stepping in. Just acted. And somehow, that single act — one small decision on a rain-heavy afternoon — had changed everything.
Now, she was here. Safe. Laughing. Herself.
"You're doing it again," Lily said suddenly, without looking up.
Aaron blinked. "Doing what?"
"Staring." She smirked, pencil tapping lightly against the page. "You always stare when you're thinking too much."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I can't help it. Just thinking how far we've come."
Lily's expression softened. She set the pencil down and looked at him properly. "A year," she said quietly. "Can you believe that?"
Aaron shook his head, smiling faintly. "Feels like yesterday. You, sitting in that park, refusing to let those idiots break you."
Her ears twitched at the memory, but she smiled — small and sure. "You looked so angry back then. I thought you were going to bite someone."
He laughed, low and genuine. "Honestly, I might've."
Lily laughed too, the sound bright and easy, chasing away whatever shadow the memory had left. "And now look at us," she said, reaching to pour more tea. "Breakfast and sketchbooks instead of bruises and rain."
Aaron crossed the room, leaning one hand on the back of her chair as he looked down at the page. She was drawing the garden — the lavender patch swaying in the morning light. His scarf brushed her shoulder as he leaned closer, and for a moment, she tilted her head against it like she'd done it a thousand times.
"It's beautiful," he said softly.
Her smile widened just a little. "So's the view."
He stilled, warmth creeping up his neck before he could respond. She giggled, clearly pleased with herself.
They lingered there in that easy rhythm — sunlight, laughter, the faint hum of life moving quietly around them. For all the chaos that had once filled their days, this calm felt almost unreal. But neither took it for granted.
Clara's voice floated in from the hallway. "Aaron, dear, could you help David with the boxes in the shed when you've finished breakfast?"
"Sure thing," Aaron called back.
Lily looked up at him, her smile teasing. "Domestic life suits you."
"Yeah?" he said, arching a brow.
She nodded, sipping her tea. "You don't scowl as much."
He laughed again — that warm, rare sound that still surprised her every time.
Outside, clouds began to gather, shading the garden in muted gray. A light breeze fluttered the curtains, cool and damp with the promise of rain. Aaron stepped to the window, gazing out as droplets began to spatter the glass.
"It's raining," he murmured.
Lily wheeled closer to the window, her eyes tracing the soft trails of water. "Just like the day we met."
Aaron's reflection met hers in the glass — two figures side by side, older now, stronger, bound by everything that had come since.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "But this time, no one's falling."
Lily smiled at that, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not anymore."
They stood there in silence as the rain began to fall harder, drumming gently against the glass. The world beyond blurred into watercolor hues — gray sky, green leaves, and lavender bending under the weight of the storm.
And yet, inside, everything was warm.
A year ago, the rain had brought fear and pain. Today, it felt like renewal. A quiet reminder of how far they'd come — and how much further they still could go, together.
The rain came steady by midmorning, tapping gently on the windows and blurring the garden into a wash of soft color. The air smelled of wet earth and lavender, cool and clean.
David was already in the shed by the time Aaron stepped outside, scarf tucked tightly around his neck, jacket pulled up against the drizzle. The old wooden door creaked open, revealing David half-buried in boxes of tools and gardening supplies.
"Morning," Aaron said, brushing rain from his hair.
David grunted good-naturedly. "Morning, son. Hope you don't mind getting your hands dirty. These boxes aren't going to move themselves."
Aaron grinned. "Wouldn't be the first time."
They worked together in easy silence, the kind built over months of quiet understanding. David would hand him a box, Aaron would stack it near the back wall, and between them, the rhythmic sound of rain filled the pauses.
After a while, David straightened, stretching his back with a groan. "You've changed, you know," he said suddenly.
Aaron blinked, caught off guard. "Changed?"
"Yeah." David's tone softened. "When you first came here, you were... lost. Angry at everything, even yourself. But now—" He gestured vaguely with one hand. "You look like a man who's found his place."
Aaron looked down at the damp floor, rain dripping from the edge of his scarf. He thought of Lily's laughter that morning, of her sleepy smile when she'd said goodnight the night before, of the way she trusted him without hesitation.
"I think I have," he said quietly.
David gave a small nod. "Good. You deserve that."
They finished the work before noon, and by the time Aaron returned inside, the rain had softened to a drizzle. He found Lily still by the window, sketchbook balanced on her knees, a blanket draped over her legs.
She looked up as he entered, her smile warm and familiar. "You're soaked."
Aaron laughed, ruffling his hair with a towel from the rack. "Occupational hazard."
"Sit," she said, patting the space beside her on the couch. "You're dripping everywhere, but I'll forgive you."
He obeyed with mock reluctance, sinking down next to her. She tucked the blanket around both their legs without a word — a simple, unspoken gesture that made his chest ache in the best way.
"What were you working on?" he asked, nodding toward her sketchbook.
She turned it toward him. It was the garden again — the lavender, the old wooden fence, the window of the shed where he'd been helping David. Only this time, she'd drawn something new: a faint outline of two figures, side by side in the doorway. One tall and broad, the other small and poised, their heads close together as if in quiet conversation.
Aaron's throat tightened. "That's…" He trailed off, unable to find the right word.
"Us," Lily finished softly. "You looked so at peace out there. I wanted to capture that."
He swallowed hard, looking at her. "You really see everything, don't you?"
"Only the things that matter," she said, eyes twinkling.
For a while they simply sat there, listening to the rain. The sound filled the quiet spaces between them — not empty, but whole, like something shared.
By the time evening arrived, the rain had started to fall again—soft, steady, rhythmic. It pattered gently against the windows, blurring the world outside into watercolor shades of gray and silver. The house was warm, though, filled with the faint scent of soup simmering on the stove and the quiet hum of the old heater in the hallway.
Lily was curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over her lap, sketching idly in her notebook. Aaron sat nearby, legs crossed on the floor, sorting through a few small wooden carvings he'd been tinkering with. The glow from his markings reflected faintly in the polished wood, tracing soft blue along the edges of the little animal figures.
"Remember when you tried to make soup last month?" Lily asked suddenly, her tone teasing.
Aaron looked up, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I remember smoke alarms. And the smell of burnt carrots for three days straight."
She laughed—a bright, easy sound that filled the room. "Hey, it wasn't that bad."
"It was. Carla had to open every window in the house."
She shook her head, smiling, eyes soft with affection. "You've gotten better since then."
He shrugged modestly, leaning back against the couch. "I've had a good teacher."
Outside, thunder rolled low and distant. Lily set her sketchbook aside and watched the rain, her reflection faint in the window glass. "Hard to believe it's been a year already," she murmured. "Since that day in the park."
Aaron's tail flicked slowly behind him. "Yeah… feels like a lifetime ago."
She turned to him, her gaze gentle. "You still remember it clearly, don't you?"
He nodded. "Every second. The rain, the shouting... the way you still tried to stand even when they pushed you down." He paused, voice softening. "I don't think I've ever met anyone braver."
Lily blushed, her ears lowering slightly. "You were the brave one that day."
Aaron smiled faintly. "Maybe. But you're the one who made me stay."
For a while, they simply listened to the rain. The silence wasn't empty—it was full, threaded with shared memory and quiet peace.
When Lily yawned, Aaron stood and adjusted the blanket around her. "Getting tired?"
She nodded, her eyelids heavy. "A little. But I don't want this night to end."
He hesitated for a moment, then sat beside her on the couch. "It doesn't have to. Not yet."
She leaned lightly against him, her warmth a familiar comfort. The storm outside grew louder, wind tapping against the windows, but inside, everything felt still—safe.
Aaron rested an arm around her shoulders, his hand brushing against her sleeve. "You know," he said softly, "the rain's not so bad when you're not alone."
Lily smiled sleepily, eyes half-closed. "It's better with you."
He chuckled under his breath, his thumb tracing small circles against the fabric of her sweater. The clock ticked softly in the background.
Before long, her breathing slowed into an even rhythm, her head resting against his shoulder. Aaron looked down at her, a quiet smile lingering on his face. The room's dim light caught the faint blue shimmer of his markings, painting the walls in a soft glow.
Outside, the rain kept falling—steady, gentle, endless.