The garden was tucked behind an old stone wall, sunlight filtering through the leaves in soft golden patches. Eliot was already there, sitting on a wooden bench under a flowering jacaranda tree, a small paper bag beside him. He stood when he saw us approach, tall and easy in a simple gray sweater and jeans, dark hair catching the light. Camila had been right—he was strikingly handsome, but in a quiet way that didn't demand attention.
The girls helped me out of the wheelchair at the entrance, then faded back to a bench across the path, pretending to scroll phones while stealing glances like they were watching the sweetest scene in a rom-com. I could feel their eyes on us, warm and protective.
Eliot smiled—small, genuine—and waited until I reached him before speaking. "Hi, Blossom. I'm Eliot. Camila said you might like chamomile, so…" He lifted the bag. "Herbal tea and some shortbread from that little bakery near campus. No pressure to eat if you're not hungry."
My cheeks burned. I managed a tiny nod, sitting beside him on the bench. "Thank you. That's… really thoughtful."
He didn't rush to fill the silence. Instead, he poured tea from a thermos into two paper cups, handing me one carefully. The steam smelled clean and comforting. "Camila talks about you a lot," he said softly. "She says you're the kindest person she knows. I believe it already."
I looked down at the cup, fingers trembling just a little. "I'm… not sure what to say. This is kind of new for me."
"Me too," he admitted. "I'm better with books than people sometimes. But I like listening. If you want to talk about anything—or nothing—that's okay."
We sat like that for a while, sipping tea, the jacaranda petals drifting down like pale purple snow. He asked gentle questions—favorite book as a kid, what kind of music calms me—and listened like every word mattered. At one point he looked at me with those kind eyes and said quietly, "You seem so young and… careable, Blossom. Like a sweet girl, a little kitten someone could just take care of. It makes me want to take care of you, pamper you like a baby ."
He smiled a bit, his voice was soft, almost shy himself, and it made my heart flutter in a way that felt both vulnerable and safe.
When I mentioned I used to love reading under trees before everything got hard, he smiled and said, "We could do that again sometime. Just sit and read. No talking required."
My heart squeezed—sweet, shy warmth spreading through the ache.
I glanced over at the girls; Isabella was biting her lip to keep from squealing, Camila had her hands clasped under her chin like she was watching a proposal scene. They looked so happy for me it made my eyes sting.
When the hour was up, Eliot stood first, offering his hand to help me up. "Thank you for coming out today," he said quietly. "I hope it wasn't too much."
"It was… nice," I whispered. "Really nice."
He smiled again—that slow, warm one—and walked me back to the path where the girls waited.
As we left, I heard Isabella whisper to Ayla, "Did you see how he poured the tea? Those long, beautiful fingers—god, he's got hands like an artist. And the way he looked at her? So charming, I can't even."
The rooftop café was higher up than I expected, but the elevator was smooth and the view opened like a painting—city lights just starting to flicker on against the deepening blue.
Anderson was waiting at a corner table near the railing, broad-shouldered in a dark button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He stood when he saw me, expression calm but kind, like he'd already decided there was no rush.
Ayla and the others took a table two away—close enough to hear if I needed them, far enough to give us space. I caught Ayla giving me a tiny thumbs-up before burying her face in a menu, grinning.
Anderson pulled out my chair. "Hey, Blossom. Ayla said you might like the view up here. Mocktails are on me—non-alcoholic mojito okay?"
I nodded, sitting carefully. "Yes. Thank you."
He sat across from me, not too close, and didn't stare at the IV port taped under my sleeve or the way my hands shook a little. "I'm not great at small talk," he said after the drinks arrived, "but I'm good at listening. Tell me whatever you want—or we can just watch the city light up."
I took a sip—the mint was cool and bright. "I… don't get out much anymore. This feels like a dream."
He nodded slowly. "I get that. Bodies can feel like strangers sometimes. Mine too, on bad days." He paused, then added gently, "If anything feels off—too cold, too much noise, anything—just say the word. We leave. No questions."
Something in his steady voice made the knot in my chest loosen. We talked a little—about walks he liked to take at dawn, how he noticed small things like birds landing on railings—and mostly we just sat, watching the sky change. When a breeze picked up, he shrugged off his jacket without asking and draped it over my shoulders, careful not to touch me more than necessary.
Across the way, Ayla was pretending to take a selfie but clearly zooming in on us; Camila wiped at her eyes, whispering, "He's so gentle with her. Look at that jacket move. "
I felt shy, exposed, but also… held. Like someone saw my fragility and didn't flinch.
_
_
_
The music venue was small and dimly lit, strings of fairy lights draped across brick walls, a single stool and microphone on the low stage. Liam was already there, leaning against the bar with a guitar case at his feet, hair messy in that effortless way, wearing a faded band tee and jeans. When he saw me, his face lit up—not loud, just bright and real.
The girls claimed the back row, Isabella practically vibrating with excitement, Camila shushing her every time she squeaked.
Liam walked over slowly. "Hey, Blossom. I'm Liam. Isabella said you like soft stuff, so I picked the quietest set tonight—just acoustic guitar and maybe one singer-songwriter. Cool?"
I nodded, heart tripping. "Sounds perfect."
He led me to a small table near the side, pulled out my chair, then sat across from me. "I brought a playlist too, just in case. Lo-fi beats, rain sounds—whatever helps you feel calm." He slid his phone over, screen showing song titles like "Warm Coffee" and "Slow Motion Stars."
The lights dimmed, and a girl with a guitar started playing—gentle chords, lyrics about quiet nights and holding on. Liam leaned in a little, voice low. "If it's too much, we can step outside. Or I can play something softer myself later. Your call."
I smiled—small, shy, but real. "I like it here."
He grinned back, playful but soft. "Good. Because I've got a terrible joke queued up if you need a laugh." He waited a beat, then whispered, "Why do musicians love elevators? Because they lift their spirits."
I laughed—quiet, surprised—and he looked so pleased, like he'd won something precious.
We listened, shared the playlist, talked in murmurs about songs that felt like home. At one point he hummed along under his breath, and I realized I wasn't nervous anymore—just here, in this warm pocket of sound and light.
From the back row, Isabella clutched Camila's arm, mouthing, "He's making her laugh. Actual laugh. I'm deceased." Aveline wiped her eyes discreetly, and Ayla just smiled like she'd known all along.
When the set ended, Liam walked me to the door, guitar case slung over his shoulder. "Thanks for tonight," he said quietly. "You're really a nice girl , Blossom. Really nice."
I looked up at him, cheeks warm. "You too."
Outside, the girls swarmed me—gentle hugs, excited whispers. "You were glowing," Camila said. "All three of them looked at you like you hung the moon."
I felt shy again, but lighter. For a few hours, the ache in my chest had taken a backseat to something softer.
Something mine.