A few months later
The house was asleep when the dream let go of him.
Not a violent thing, not like the old ones that used to tear him out of sleep like a wave gripping his throat — just a flicker of headlights, the echo of crunching metal, a flash of blue-white panic that rolled through his ribs and jolted him awake.
Aaron sat up slowly, breath shaky only for a moment before steadiness returned. The room was dim and quiet. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm, letting the leftover adrenaline fade like mist.
He wasn't trembling.
He wasn't gasping.
He wasn't broken.
Just… awake too early.
He pulled on the soft blanket folded at the end of his bed — the thick knitted one Carla insisted he "needed more than he pretended he did" — and padded downstairs.
The house greeted him the way a home should:
low creaks in the steps, faint hum of the fridge, the murmured comfort of a place lived in by people who cared. The kind of place that held warmth in the walls.
He settled on the couch, wrapped up in his blanket like a cocoon, glowing markings dim and sleepy. Rain ticked softly against the window. In the quiet, he let himself breathe. Just breathe.
A long time had passed.
He was different now.
He knew it. He felt it.
But some echoes… they never left entirely.
Minutes passed — quiet, gentle, safe.
Then came the soft whirr of wheels against hardwood.
"Aaron…?" Lily's voice floated from the hallway, soft and a little raspy from sleep.
He lifted his head. She was there in the doorway, hair messy, wrapped in her own blanket like a sleepy burrito, blinking at him with concerned brown eyes.
"Too early for you to be up," he said with a small smile.
She yawned. "Too early for you too."
She rolled closer, parking beside the couch. He shifted the blanket so she could lean her shoulder against him if she wanted — she did — and the two of them watched the rain streak down the window in slow silver lines.
"You okay?" she asked, voice quiet.
"Yeah."
A pause.
"A dream. Not a bad one. Just… leftover static."
She nodded, accepting tfhe truth in his voice without pushing deeper.
"You know," she murmured, "a year ago you'd never admit even that."
"And a year ago," he countered gently, "you would've apologized for waking me up even if you didn't."
She chuckled under her breath. "Guess we both learned something."
The house stayed quiet around them — warm, lived-in, safe.
Two people wrapped in blankets, sharing the soft glow of a morning that arrived a little too early.
And for once, Aaron didn't mind being awake.
The minutes stretched, peaceful and unhurried, the rain thinning to a soft drizzle. The house was still — not the usual organized bustle of a Martes family morning, but the slow sweetness of a rare late start.
"Pretty sure your parents are still out cold," Aaron murmured.
Lily hummed, amused.
"Mom was up till like two working on that project report. Dad tried to stay awake to keep her company and passed out on the rug."
Aaron snorted. "Classic."
"Classic," she echoed, smiling.
He leaned back, letting his head rest against the couch cushion, eyes half-lidded. Lily's blanket brushed against his arm, her presence grounding in a way he hadn't known he needed until it became familiar.
"I like mornings like this," she said quietly.
"No noise. No rush. Just… this."
Aaron looked at her — really looked.
A year's worth of trust sat between them, warm as the blanket draped over his shoulders.
"Yeah," he replied. "Me too."
She fiddled absently with a loose thread on her blanket.
"Do you still get them a lot? The dreams?"
"Not really," he said honestly. "Just sometimes. Like echoes that don't want to fade completely."
She nodded, thoughtful.
"That's okay, you know. Healing doesn't mean forgetting everything."
"I know."
He exhaled softly. "And honestly… I don't mind mornings like this after they happen."
She bumped her shoulder lightly against his.
"That's because you get to hang out with me."
He smirked. "Tragic fate."
She stuck her tongue out. "Rude."
He nudged her blanket with his own. "You asked."
Their laughter was quiet, tucked into the sleepy warmth of the house. Outside, the clouds began to lift, pale sunlight blooming slowly across the neighborhood roofs.
Upstairs, still absolutely dead to the world, Carla snored faintly.
Dave, face half-buried in a pillow he absolutely did not remember stealing from the floor, didn't so much as twitch.
Lily grinned at the thought. "We should make breakfast before they wake up. And by 'we,' I mean you, and I supervise."
"Oh, of course," Aaron said dramatically. "The true division of labor."
"Exactly."
He stretched, blanket still wrapped around him like a cape, and stood.
"Alright, supervisor. Eggs? Pancakes? Toast?"
Lily tilted her head, pretending to ponder deeply.
"Pancakes. Obviously."
"Pancakes it is."
And just like that, the morning shifted — still soft, still quiet, but carrying that little spark of joy that came from building a life with someone… piece by piece, morning by morning.
The rest of the morning drifted by in that warm, mellow way only quiet weekends can. Aaron rinsed dishes while humming under his breath, Lily dried them with slow, methodical precision, and Carla eventually wandered in — bleary-eyed, hair a fluffy mess — blaming the smell of pancakes for ruining her dreams.
Dave followed an hour later, still looking half-asleep and deeply betrayed by the concept of mornings. Lily teased him. He took it like a man who loved his daughter but hated consciousness.
By noon, the house was calm again.
Soft chatter.
Sunlight slipping across the floorboards.
A breeze that smelled faintly of jasmine.
Just life. Just them.
It was Lily who broke the stillness first.
"Aaron?" she called from the living room, tapping the end of one crutch lightly against the floor. "Wanna go out somewhere?"
He looked up from folding a dish towel. "Where to?"
She shrugged lightly. "I was thinking… the park. The one where we met."
He paused. Not because he disliked the idea — but because that place held a very specific kind of memory.
"…The park?" he echoed.
"Yeah. It's been ages."
There was a flicker behind her eyes. Anticipation. Curiosity. Something she wasn't naming yet.
But he nodded. "Alright. Let me grab my jacket."
The bus ride to their old park took about fifteen minutes — warm, rattling, full of city chatter and the low hum of the engine. Lily sat by the window, watching the rows of shops and old houses slide by. Aaron sat beside her, hands stuffed into the pockets of his coat, tail wrapping loosely around his leg.
He didn't say it aloud, but he knew she was remembering.
Because he was too.
The kids.
The jeering.
Lily clutching her crutch like a lifeline.
The wet pavement.
Her shaking voice.
His steps cutting through the rain.
The moment her eyes — frightened, furious, cornered — met his.
The day everything quietly shifted.
The park looked different now. The city had repainted the benches, fixed the cracked walkway, planted new shrubs. But the memory lived in the spaces between those changes. Lily paused near the small gravel clearing where she had stood, surrounded, all that time ago.
"It looks smaller now," she murmured.
Aaron huffed a quiet laugh. "You said that last time too."
"Yeah, well." She flicked her tail. "It keeps shrinking."
He slipped his hands from his pockets and nudged her shoulder gently. "And you keep getting braver."
A flush warmed her ears, but she didn't deny it.
They sat beneath the same old oak tree, the one that had sheltered them both from a storm long before they ever knew what they would become to each other. The breeze rustled the leaves overhead. Children laughed somewhere off in the distance. For a while, it was peaceful.
Then Lily said his name—soft, testing.
"Aaron?"
He turned. "Yeah?"
She hesitated. A subtle shift of her fingers, tightening around the handle of her crutch. "I… wanted to ask something. Something real."
He blinked. "Okay."
She took a quiet breath. "I know the big things about you. The heavy things. Your family. The center. How strong you had to become just to stay upright."
He looked down at the grass, a muscle in his jaw twitching.
"But I don't know the small things," she continued gently. "The before-things. Where you lived. What your life was like when you were on your own. With the center. Before us."
His posture changed — barely, but enough that she felt it.
And he hated that his instinct was still to hide.
He lowered his gaze to the grass. "It's… not a nice place. I don't want you to see it."
"Why?"
He exhaled slowly, voice almost a whisper.
"Because I don't want you to see what I used to think was enough."
Her expression softened even more.
"Aaron," she said, her voice like warm dusk, "your past isn't shameful just because it was lonely."
He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, she saw the answer already sitting there.
"…Okay," he murmured. "If you really want to… I'll take you."
A slow, bright smile spread across her face. "I do."
He stood first, offering his hand. She took it, steadying herself.
"You know," she teased lightly, "for someone with glowing blue eyes you can be very in the dark about how much I love you."
He choked on a laugh, ears reddening.
"And you," he shot back, "are far too comfortable bullying me."
"That's the spirit," she grinned.
They walked together to the bus stop — side by side, hands brushing, the air full of old ghosts and new courage.
A 25-minute ride toward his past was waiting.
And this time…
he wasn't going alone.
The second bus ride was quieter.
City buildings blurred past the windows in muted shades of gray and rust, old paint peeling from weather-beaten shopfronts. The streets here weren't dangerous — just… forgotten. The kind of place no one bragged about living in.
Lily watched the scenery shift, and though she didn't comment, her ears lowered the tiniest bit. Not in judgment — just in understanding.
Aaron sat stiffly beside her, shoulders squared, hands clasped too tightly in his lap. He kept glancing out the window the way someone looks for exits, not landmarks.
After twenty-five minutes, the bus sighed to a halt.
"This is it," he murmured.
They stepped off into a narrow street lined with uneven sidewalks and small apartments pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. A faded grocery store sign flickered overhead. A tabby cat lounged on a dumpster lid, the smell of old cardboard and rain-soaked pavement drifting through the air.
Lily took in the scene… then squeezed his hand gently.
Aaron didn't speak. He just led her forward.
His old building sat at the end of the block — three stories, cracked plaster, a stair railing wrapped in duct tape where it had split years ago. Someone had painted the front door green once, but half the paint had chipped away, leaving a mottled mix of wood and color.
"It looks…" Lily began carefully.
"Awful," Aaron finished. "It looks awful."
She shook her head. "It looks lived in. That's different."
He wanted to argue, but she wasn't wrong — families still came in and out. A kid's bike leaned against the wall. Curtains fluttered in open windows. Life was here, even if it wasn't polished.
He led her inside.
The stairwell smelled faintly of dust and overcooked rice. The lights hummed overhead. A door slammed somewhere above them, followed by laughter echoing down the stairs.
"This was it," Aaron said, stopping on the second floor. He nodded toward a plain brown door with a dent near the bottom. "Apartment 2C."
He hesitated.
Lily didn't push him. She just waited — patient, quiet, steady.
Finally, he unlocked the old door. It creaked open.
The air inside was cool and dim. The curtains were closed but thin enough that hazy light seeped in. The apartment was small — painfully small. A single room split into a kitchenette and living space, with a door on the right that must've led to the bedroom.
It wasn't dirty, but it carried the unmistakable feel of someone who'd been surviving, not living.
Aaron stepped just inside the doorway but didn't move further.
"This was home," he said softly. "For a long time."
Lily looked around slowly.
There was a worn couch pushed against the wall. A shelf with only two books on it. A small desk, scratched at the edges. A kettle that had clearly been used far too many times. The wallpaper near the stove had peeled from heat.
Her heart pinched.
Not because it was bad.
But because she could imagine him here — alone, quiet, trying to make it through each day without drowning.
"You don't have to be ashamed of this," she said, voice barely above a whisper.
Aaron's breath hitched. "I lived like someone waiting for life to start. Like—like I didn't deserve more."
"You deserved more than this," she said firmly.
He flinched, not from her tone but because he believed her — and that belief hurt.
Lily stepped further inside, touching the edge of the couch, her fingers trailing over the fabric.
"Did you like living here?" she asked.
"No."
He said it instantly.
And honestly.
"No, I hated it."
"Then why did you stay?"
He swallowed.
She watched his throat tighten.
When he spoke, it was low and fragile.
"…Because I didn't have the strength to want anything better."
Lily set her crutches aside against the wall and moved closer. He didn't even hear her until she was right in front of him, lifting his hands into hers.
"Aaron," she whispered, "you have more strength than anyone I've ever met."
"Lily—"
"You survived heartbreak. You rebuilt yourself from nothing. You took care of others even when you couldn't take care of yourself. And you still found room to protect me — a stranger in a storm."
His eyes shimmered faintly.
She reached up and cupped his cheek.
"This place isn't who you are," she murmured. "It's just where you came from."
Silence filled the room — heavy, but warm now. Healing instead of hurting.
Aaron let out a slow breath. "I didn't want you to see me like this."
"I see you," Lily said simply. "All of you. And I'm not going anywhere."
He let out a small, shaking laugh — the kind that comes from relief, not amusement. Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers.
"Thank you," he whispered.
She smiled. "You brought me here. That already tells me everything I need to know."
They stood together in the quiet room — his past around them, their future somewhere far brighter.
And slowly, one by one, the shadows in the corners stopped feeling like something he needed to hide.
Aaron drew a quiet breath, "The care center's a few blocks from here. Figured… if you want, I could show you where I worked."
Her ears perked. "Really?"
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly shy for no good reason. "Yeah. It's not fancy. Kind of the opposite. But it was… important."
Lily placed her hand lightly on his arm — grounding, warm. "Show me."
So they walked the familiar path: cracked pavement, an old mural faded by sun, a chain-link fence that rattled in the wind. Aaron tried to keep his breathing steady, tried to remember he wasn't the boy who used to hurry through here with his head down.
"You okay?" Lily asked.
"Yeah," he said — and it was almost true.
When they reached the care center, the building rose like a stubborn relic from his past life. Small, utilitarian, washed-out blue paint clinging on like it had something to prove. The windows were open, curtains fluttering. A few kids were playing inside, their laughter echoing faintly.
Aaron stopped a few meters from the entrance.
"This is it," he said, voice softer than he intended. "Where I worked. Where Dave first found me. Where… everything really changed."
Lily stepped in front of him, taking the building in with careful eyes.
"It looks… warm," she said gently. "Like somewhere you helped make better."
He didn't trust himself to speak for a second.
She nudged his elbow. "Can we go inside? Only if you want to."
Aaron hesitated — shoulders tightening, jaw twitching — the ghosts of long, tired days flickering behind his eyes.
"I don't want to stay long," he admitted. "Just… maybe look around for a minute. It feels weird being back."
"Then we'll only stay a minute," Lily said, smiling. "And I'll be right next to you the whole time."
He huffed out a shaky laugh. "You always say that."
"That's because it's always true."
With a deep breath, he stepped forward, pushing open the front door. The hinges groaned like they remembered him.
And Lily followed, close enough that he didn't feel the weight of the place quite so sharply.
The front desk looked exactly the same.
Same chipped counter. Same plastic pen cup. Same fake potted plant that had somehow outlived every real one Aaron ever tried to put there.
And behind the desk sat Mara — the receptionist who'd worked there longer than anyone, the one who claimed she could identify a staff member's footsteps just from sound alone.
She didn't even look up at first, busy scribbling something on a clipboard.
But the moment Aaron stepped forward, the door still creaking shut behind him, she froze mid-sentence.
Her head snapped up.
Her eyes widened.
"Aaron?" she blurted, hand flying to her chest. "Oh my goodness—what are you doing here? Sweet stars, come here—!"
Before he could speak, she was already halfway around the counter, wrapping him in a hug that was half tackled affection, half mother-hen scolding.
Aaron stiffened on instinct—then let out a breath and hugged her back. Lily watched with a soft smile, tail flicking gently.
Mara stepped back and gave him a once-over. "You look good. Healthier. Less haunted. Mostly."
Aaron laughed awkwardly. "Thanks… I think."
Her attention shifted to Lily, eyes warm and curious. "And who's this young lady?"
Lily stepped forward politely. "I'm Lily. I… um—Aaron is my caregiver."
Mara's eyebrows rose with interest, her smile widening. "Ahh. That explains the glow. He always was a sweetheart."
Aaron's ears reddened a little. "We're just… visiting. I wanted to show her the place. Won't be long."
"Well, you take all the time you need," Mara said, swatting his arm fondly. "You're family here. Door's always open."
With that blessing, they moved deeper into the hallway.
The change hit Aaron almost immediately.
Different posters on the walls. Different shoes tucked beside doors. Different voices drifting from the rec room. Funny how a place could look exactly the same and still feel like it had shifted just a few inches away from the version he remembered.
"You okay?" Lily whispered.
He nodded. "Just… noticing."
They turned the corner, and suddenly—
"Aaron?!"
Two staff members he used to work with—Jared and Elira—were clustered near a bulletin board. Both did double-takes before rushing over.
"Man, it's been forever!" Jared grinned, pulling him into a one-armed hug. "Look at you. You look like you actually sleep now."
Elira elbowed Jared. "Leave him alone. Hi, sweetheart." She squeezed Aaron's hand, warm and gentle. "It's good to see you."
Aaron introduced Lily, who bowed shyly. The staff welcomed her with easy smiles and kind words, the sort of people who didn't need a reason to be compassionate.
As they continued down the hall, Aaron heard a voice from one of the rooms—small, high, familiar.
"A-Aaron?"
He turned.
A little fox kit peeked out from behind the doorway—Max. One of the clingiest, brightest kids Aaron used to take care of, now taller and steadier on his feet.
Aaron's heart squeezed. "Hey, champ."
The kid sprinted across the hall and wrapped his arms around Aaron's waist—same way he used to years ago. Aaron knelt and hugged him properly, smiling through the sudden tightness in his chest.
"You came back," Max whispered.
"Just visiting," Aaron murmured, ruffling the kid's head. "But I'm really glad to see you."
Lily watched it all—a quiet observer, eyes softening at the way Aaron melted around people he used to care for. A man who claimed he didn't fit anywhere, yet somehow left fingerprints of kindness everywhere he'd been.
As Aaron stood again, Max waved enthusiastically before darting away.
Lily stepped closer. "You really were important here."
He shrugged, but there was no hiding the warmth in his eyes. "I just… did my job."
"No," she said gently. "You did more."
They walked a little slower after that, letting the memories rise and settle naturally. Every familiar voice, every surprised smile, every "Aaron? Is that you?" left him with a strange, fragile peace.
The care center hadn't forgotten him.
And… maybe he hadn't completely outgrown it.
Lily slipped her hand into his.
"Thank you for bringing me here," she said quietly.
Aaron squeezed her hand back, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "Yeah. I'm… glad I did."