The midday sky stretched soft blue above the Vaughn residence. After a breakfast filled with laughter and teasing from Lord Vaughn, Celeste and Alistair chose to spend their day in the rarely touched music room. The space was quiet, its walls lined with antique bookshelves, and at its center stood a gleaming white piano—an heirloom from Alistair's grandmother, who was once a professional pianist.
Alistair pulled out the bench for Celeste, inviting her to sit.
"Play something," he said softly.
Celeste looked at him. "I can't play the piano."
"Then… let me play *you*," Alistair whispered playfully, his signature smirk curling at the edges.
Celeste gave his shoulder a light shove, laughing. "You're never serious for more than a minute."
"I'm serious when I love you," he countered swiftly. "And I'm serious about wanting you to hear the song I wrote last night."
Celeste's eyes widened. "You wrote a song?"
"A stupid one," Alistair murmured, sitting at the piano and lifting the key cover. "But it's… about you."
With his long fingers, he began to play a gentle melody. The song was simple, not intricate like classical compositions, but beautiful in its simplicity. Each note resonated like the steady beat of his own heart—deep, unwavering, and brimming with unspoken longing.
Celeste sat silently, listening. Her eyes glistened, not from sadness, but from the depth of attention the man before her had poured into every note. Alistair hadn't just given her a home and a family name—he'd given her a space to feel cherished.
When the song ended, silence enveloped the room. Celeste slowly stood and walked toward him.
"Alistair…"
"Hm?"
"Can I… hug you now?"
Alistair didn't answer. He simply stood, opened his arms, and Celeste melted into his embrace.
For a long while, they stood wordlessly—no sound but their synchronized breaths, no warmth but that of two souls sheltering each other.
"I'm… still learning how to love you in a healthy way," Celeste whispered, her voice faint.
Alistair kissed her temple. "And I'm still learning how to be the safest place for you to come home to."
They settled on the music room floor, leaning against the glass wall overlooking the garden. Celeste rested her head on Alistair's shoulder while he hugged his knees, watching the slow drift of clouds.
"If one day we have a child…" Celeste murmured, "I want them to know… how hard my life once was. So they understand how precious a warm home is."
Alistair took her hand and brought it to his lips.
"They'll know. Because you'll be the best mother."
Celeste turned her head. "And you'll be the father who reads bedtime stories in such a serious voice that our child falls asleep out of boredom."
Alistair laughed loudly, and Celeste joined in. Their voices echoed through the usually silent room.
As evening approached, they moved to their bedroom balcony. Celeste wore a thin knit cardigan, legs curled onto the chair, a cup of hot chocolate in her hands. Alistair sat on the floor, leaning against her knees, his fingers dancing absently as if still playing piano keys.
"I feel strange," Celeste murmured.
"Why?"
"Because… for the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of tomorrow."
Alistair looked up at her, then smiled faintly. "That means… you're exactly where you should be."
And as the sun dipped behind the mountains that day, Celeste realized—though the world had once rejected her, though life had nearly broken her—she'd finally found home.
---
Twilight descended in golden strokes over the garden foliage. The sky bled soft purples and fiery oranges, as if heaven itself were being repainted before their eyes. The evening breeze tousled Celeste's hair, and beside her, Alistair remained seated—his head resting in his wife's lap.
"If I could choose one place to spend the rest of my life…" Alistair mused, "My answer would be: right here in your lap."
Celeste chuckled softly, her fingers gently threading through his dark hair. "You're impossible."
"I mean it," he said, gazing at the sky. "I used to think love was a weakness. But falling for you… became the turning point of my life."
Celeste didn't reply. She simply studied the man who now looked so at peace—as if all the wounds and shadows of his past no longer gripped him. She knew Alistair wasn't perfect. Neither was she. Yet it was in their cracks and flaws that they'd found a wholeness unmatched anywhere else.
"Alistair…"
"Hmm?"
"I'm scared… of being this comfortable."
He turned to her. "Why?"
"Because… happiness like this feels like a dream. And dreams can vanish anytime."
Alistair sat up, clasping her hands, his gaze piercing. "If this is a dream, I never want to wake up. And if fate tries to take you from me… I'll steal time from the universe itself to keep you."
Celeste's cheeks flushed—not from embarrassment, but from the overwhelming fullness in her chest. She lowered her head, swallowing the lump in her throat.
Alistair pulled her into his arms. "I told you, didn't I? You're not alone anymore. The world is cruel, but as long as I live… you'll never walk without my hand in yours."
---
Night arrived gradually, replacing daylight with emerging stars. In the living room, Mrs. Elora lit aromatic candles and warm-hued chandeliers. Lord Vaughn still read by the fireplace, accompanied by untouched tea and biscuits.
Meanwhile, on the upper balcony, Celeste leaned against Alistair's chest, wrapped in a shared thin blanket, letting the night's chill be overtaken by their intimacy.
"I want… to document every second with you," Celeste whispered. "So when I'm old, I won't forget how precious this love is."
"And I'll be the old man rereading your love letters, even if I've forgotten how to spell my own name."
They laughed together.
And in that embrace, there were no ambitions, no haunting pasts, no outside world. Just two hearts… choosing to keep loving, in stillness and in hope.