Rose's POV
I woke up to sunlight streaming through the tall, arched windows of the mansion bedroom, soft, golden rays spilling across the white sheets like melted honey. The silence of the place used to feel heavy, almost oppressive, like the walls were echoing Maxwell's absence. But this morning… it felt different. Peaceful.
I lay there for a moment, eyes half open, tracing the way the light moved across the curtains, how it danced on the crystal vases and caught the edges of the picture frames. The faint ticking of the clock blended with the distant hum of the ocean waves. For once, the stillness didn't ache.
Stretching lazily, I let the cool morning air from the half-open balcony doors brush against my skin. The scent of dew and blooming jasmine drifted in, mingling with the faint aroma of sea salt and roses that always seemed to linger in this part of the mansion. From the balcony, I could already hear the gardeners working below, the soft snip of shears, the whisper of leaves brushing together.
When I stepped outside, the view made me pause. The gardens stretched endlessly, a canvas of green with perfectly trimmed hedges winding like a maze, and the faint shimmer of the pool below catching the morning sun like glass. Birds fluttered between the trees, their songs weaving through the quiet breeze.
For the first time in a long while, I wasn't lonely. I was content.
Back inside, my phone buzzed against the nightstand, the vibration breaking the calm. I glanced at the screen. Maxwell.
I hesitated. My fingers lingered over the device for a second before I finally swiped to answer.
"Hey," I said softly, my voice steady but careful.
"Rose." His tone came through, low and familiar. I could hear faint chatter in the background, maybe a busy office, maybe an airport. "I'm sorry I haven't called as much as I should. Things have been crazy over here."
I moved toward the balcony again, leaning against the cool iron railing. "I figured," I replied lightly. "You've said that before."
He gave a small laugh, the kind that was half genuine, half guilty. "I know. But I mean it this time. I really am sorry, sweetheart. I'll be back next week. I promise. I miss you."
The words settled over me like a warm blanket, familiar but distant. I closed my eyes for a second, letting the sunlight touch my face. "It's okay," I said after a pause. "I've been keeping busy."
"Oh?" His voice perked up a little. "With what?"
"Pottery," I replied, a small smile forming on my lips. "Clarissa convinced me to try it, and it's been surprisingly healing. There's something about working with clay, it's like you can shape your emotions into something beautiful."
He chuckled, a soft sound that almost made me forget the time between us. "That sounds perfect for you, Rose. I'm glad you found something that makes you happy."
"I have," I said truthfully. "I even joined the weekend classes. You should see what I made… well, almost made. It's not perfect, but it feels good."
"Keep at it," he said warmly. "You sound lighter. Happier. I've missed that in your voice."
That caught me off guard. I didn't realize how much I'd changed until he said it. Maybe I really was lighter.
When the call ended, I stood there for a long time, staring out at the horizon. The morning sun painted everything gold, the water, the glass windows, even the leaves seemed to sparkle. The mansion, once a hollow reminder of distance and waiting, now felt alive again. Not because Maxwell had called, but because I had finally learned how to fill it with my own peace.
Days slipped by easily after that. I filled them with reading, tending to the little potted plants on the balcony, and sketching pottery ideas in my notebook. I even played old records sometimes, letting the music drift through the empty hallways. It felt like reclaiming something I didn't know I'd lost.
By Saturday, I was practically humming with excitement as I drove to the pottery studio.
The air was crisp that morning. The studio stood at the corner of a quiet street, sunlight streaming through its large glass windows. Inside, the familiar scent of clay, glaze, and paint greeted me like an old friend. The faint hum of the wheels turning, the chatter of voices, and the occasional splash of water created a rhythm that was oddly comforting.
Clarissa waved from the corner, her blonde hair tied in a loose bun, a smudge of clay on her cheek. "Rose! Over here!" she called out brightly.
I smiled and made my way over. The class was a little fuller this week, just like she'd said, around ten people now, each with their own wheel and little mountain of clay. Among them was a sweet gay couple who'd joined recently. They worked side by side, stealing glances and soft smiles, their hands moving in quiet harmony. Watching them made me smile, there was such tenderness in the way they existed together, no words, just understanding.
And then I saw him.
Mickey.
He was already at the front, sleeves rolled up, his forearms streaked with clay, and his usual relaxed smile playing on his lips. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his blue eyes, impossibly blue, seemed to hold a spark of easy confidence.
As he moved around, helping students fix their wheels and checking water bowls, his laughter filled the room, easy, unforced, and genuine.
And that's when it hit me, the charm, the warmth, the way his eyes lingered that other day, it wasn't special. That was just who he was. He was kind to everyone.
Still, I couldn't help the tiny flicker of disappointment that settled somewhere deep in my chest. I tried to focus on my work, shaping the wet clay into something resembling a vase, but every now and then, my eyes drifted toward him. The way he leaned in to help someone, the way he smiled when he praised a student's effort, it all pulled at something soft inside me.
When the class ended, I wiped my hands and joined Clarissa near the sink. She looked radiant, proud even. "I'm so glad you're loving this," she said, handing me a towel. "You're a natural, Rose. I told you it would feel better than yoga."
I laughed, shaking my head. "You were right. I'm actually enjoying this more than I thought I would."
She grinned. "See? I knew it."
We chatted for a bit about glazes and how next week we'd be learning to fire our pieces. But even as she spoke, my attention betrayed me. I could see Mickey across the room, laughing with a few of the students, his eyes bright with that same effortless energy. My chest tightened a little, and I scolded myself silently. Stop it, Rose. You're not sixteen.
A few minutes later, Mickey strolled over, wiping his hands on a towel, his smile as disarming as ever. "Hey, Clarissa. Hey, Rose," he said warmly. "Great work today, you're really improving." His gaze flicked briefly to me, and even though it was just a glance, my heart betrayed me with a single, unnecessary skip.
"Thanks," I replied, trying to sound casual, my voice steadier than I felt.
Before I could say more, Clarissa, in her usual teasing tone, tilted her head and asked, "Mickey, do you have a girlfriend? My niece's in town, and I was thinking of introducing you two."
I froze mid-motion, trying not to react, but curiosity piqued instantly.
He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, no, I don't have a girlfriend. But that's sweet of you to offer. How old's your niece?"
"She's exactly your age, 21," Clarissa said, smiling playfully. "You two might get along."
Mickey's expression softened, amused. "I don't know for sure," he said with a half smile, "but I'd definitely not mind meeting her."
My breath caught. Twenty-one?
I blinked, staring at him as realization sank in. He was practically a baby.
For a second, I almost laughed aloud at myself. The relief that followed was ridiculous but real. All that nervous energy, the tiny sparks I'd been trying to ignore, suddenly, they all made sense. I wasn't smitten; I was just intrigued. Curious.
And so, as I packed up my things, I smiled quietly to myself. Life was strange that way, it kept surprising me in the gentlest, most unexpected moments.
As I stepped outside, the afternoon sun bathed everything in soft amber light. The world felt lighter, brighter. And for once, I wasn't waiting for a call, or clinging to a memory. I was just there, fully present, grounded, and quietly happy.
The silence, I realized, no longer needed to be filled.