Chapter 135: Safe enough
It was really quiet in the villa, the kind of quiet that comes from sleepless, endless nights. I came out of it to the gentle crunch of leaves outside, sunlight filtering through the gauzy curtains like liquid gold. Caspian lay next to me, the rhythmic expansion and contraction of his chest steady, lashes tracing pale creases on his cheek.
I just sat there for a moment to take it all in and I did not want to disturb him as he slept.
There was something misplaced in his face as he slept—a softness, a vulnerability of some sort that he never presented during the day. The creases in his forehead softened, his jaw relaxed. He was younger, it seemed. Less guarded. And for the first time in weeks, perhaps longer, I did not feel the undertone of fear buzzing just below the surface of my own skin. I did not need to steel myself.
I just felt safe.
Not healed. Not whole. But safe.
I slipped out of bed cautiously, the cold tile shocking my bare toes. The hall was memory and morning combined, light spilling out on the floor, birdsong filtering in the windows. I dodged into the kitchen, tying on my hair, and ran a comb through the pantry.
Breakfast was a subdued ritual now—my attempt to contribute something small, material, to this fragile peace we were beginning to think we could have. I cracked eggs with nervous delicacy, toasted bread that smoldered just a little too hot, and quartered strawberries into spiffy arrangement. The kettle whistled softly as I filled our cracked cups to the top, the steam curling like mist.
Caspian materialized in the doorway the very next instant, shirt unbuttoned halfway, hair mussed with sleep.
"Something's on fire," he sleep-thickly muttered.
I whirled, not anticipating the smile's curve. He leaned against the doorframe, one hand braced there, arms crossed, his eyes watching me.
"Just the toast," I confessed, holding the spatula aloft like a white flag of surrender. "You can call it gourmet."
He smiled and approached me slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. No hurry, no need to weigh up old wars or new wounds—just the thump of us, beat for beat.
We sat facing each other at the small table, plates before us, sun shining to dance golden patterns on the wood. For a short time we ate in comfortable silence, the only noises the random clatter of a fork or soft laughter at a shared glance. His hand brushed against mine once, fleetingly, and neither of us pulled away. We acted as if pulling away would mean the end of what we still had together.
Counseling became automatic also. It lingered in the periphery of everything—redirecting the manner in which we spoke, the manner in which we listened. It made provision for things unspoken, made it acceptable to inform another that we didn't yet know everything.
"You didn't used to eat strawberries," he blurted out, observing as I speared another bite.
I looked back at him. "I didn't used to feel right eating breakfast either."
The words between us, bare. His gaze shifted—something gentle, something wounded. He reached out his hand over the table and enclosed mine in a loose grip.
"You don't need to say that."
I nodded, my throat tightening. "I know. But I want to. Just let me say whatever I want to say, no matter how you feel about it at the moment. That’s all I ask of you."
He looked at me and observed me for a while before opening his mouth “All right Lily. I have heard you and I’ll always try my best to do just that. I promise you that.”
As I cleaned up, I found myself slipping into the studio room. Walls still covered with remnants of canvases past, works in progress torn and discarded, the scent of charcoal and linseed oil still present in the air. It was home again—not somewhere to run away from, but somewhere to return to. My fingers on autopilot, pencil sprang across paper until something took form.
By the time I was done, the drawing had exceeded what I'd envisioned. It was us—me and Caspian, crunched on the kitchen floor like we'd been nights ago, shoulder to shoulder, raw tension between us there but eased by presence. It wasn't flawless, but it was authentic.
The flames spit in the other room. The afternoon sun had begun to fall, and the long shadows fell on the broad villa walls. I had discovered Caspian in his study, at his desk, reading something with intense focus.
I lingered there, uncertain.
There was silence in him that had not been there before. The sort that came from submission, perhaps? Reconstruction. His desk drawer, the one that had held so many of his secrets hitherto, was absent. In its place was a waiting, empty space.
I edged forward and set the drawing down with care on his desk.
He looked up, eyes darting between me and the sheet.
"What's this?"
"A piece of me. Something real. Something I'm not afraid to leave out here in the open."
His fingers traced the creases softly, as if in awe. When he turned to me again, his gaze held something raw and unspoken.
"There's no more hiding," I whispered.
He stood up gradually, covering the distance between us in two steps. His palms framed my face, thumbs stroking along the cheekbones.
"Not from you. Not anymore."
Our kiss was gentle—no longer shaking, no longer heavy with the desperation of before. His lips were warm and comforting, and I leaned into the weight of him. The way he kept me now wasn't because he was afraid to lose me, but because he felt like I'd rather be there.
We didn't have to say all that and dangled between us. We had the light, the quiet. The tentative beginnings of faith not required but acquired.
And for the first time in what had felt like a lifetime, that was enough.