Chapter 25
Astrid
I sprawled onto the grass, tired, watching someone fiddle with cords beneath the outdoor movie screen. There was no movie playing yet, no blanket beside me, but the whole scene already felt nostalgic and a tiny bit magical—exactly the sort of night we'd talked about when planning bonfire night.
My heart skipped—that sudden, tiny jolt phones do when they find their matching frequency somewhere nearby. Right on cue, the frequency itself settled down beside me. I shot upright, startled and way too aware of him all at once.
“Ferris wheel all good to go?” I asked.
He nodded, his eyes flicking down to my wrist with a gentleness that made my chest tighten. “How’s your wrist feeling?”
I rolled it lightly for him. “See? Completely fine now.” My wrist had hurt like hell for a couple days after that box landed on top of my hand. Aeron had given the poor volunteer an earful. He refused to let me do anything since, even tasks that had nothing to do with my wrist.
He caught my wrist mid-air, fingertips circling it. My heart turned into a drunk drummer, missing every beat, hitting all the wrong notes. “Do you even feed this wrist?” he teased.
“I've got bones of steel,” I said proudly. Sure, I was lean, but I'd crushed plenty of opponents in tug-of-war matches, boys included.
“Bones of steel, but stools still defeat you.”
I wasn't even going to argue. He always managed to circle every conversation back to my epic stool fall incident.
Our conversation eased into a comfortable silence. It felt strangely nice to sit here in the park, summer breeze lazily ruffling my hair, Aeron so close beside me. I was getting used to him being close, maybe too used to it.
“Aeron,” I called, surprising myself with how gently his name came out.
“Hmm?” he murmured back, voice just as soft, like we’d agreed on this tone ahead of time.
“Nothing.”
“Astrid.”
I turned, meeting the questioning look in his eyes.
“What’s it?” he asked.
I smiled a little. “Thank you.”
“For?”
“For yesterday. I hadn’t cried in front of anyone since Dad died.” The memory hit me—Aeron hugging me, letting me cry it out. With him, my walls had always come down easily.
He took my hand, thumb moving over the empty spot on my wrist where my watch normally sat. “Was it your dad’s?”
“How did you know?” I was pretty sure I'd never mentioned it to him.
“I noticed,” Aeron said. “The dial was cracked, and the strap never fit your wrist, even tightened all the way, but you wore it anyway. And when it broke, your tears said it wasn't just any watch.”
He noticed everything, always caught the little details everyone else overlooked. Everyone around me that day assumed I was crying over my wrist, but the truth was, losing that watch hurt a thousand times worse.
“It was the only thing I had left of him, and now it’s gone too,” I said. “I gave him that for his birthday, and he wore it every single day. One minute he was on the phone, telling me he’d won the case, and the next—” my voice faltered,“—the next, all I heard was a gunshot. And he was gone.”
Aeron didn’t speak, just tightened his fingers gently around my wrist, holding on like he knew I needed it. Sometimes he said everything without words.
“He was the only family I had.” I forced a bitter smile. “Now there's no one left.”
He let go of my wrist, his fingers coming up to tilt my face toward him, forcing me to meet his gaze. “Don’t ever say you’re alone, Astrid. You’re not,” he said, voice firm, eyes burning into me. “You hear me?”
My thoughts went fuzzy, tangled in what he’d just said. Was he—was he saying he’d be here for me? Or was my desperate, messy heart turning his kindness into something it wasn't?
I suddenly realized how close we were. Only inches separated us, his gaze dipping from my eyes down to my lips. I thought he'd close that tiny gap between us.
A breath away, and my heart was already leaning in, but my mind hesitated unsure if I was ready to cross that line yet. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deep like it hurt him to pull back. “It’s late.” He stood up. “Let’s go. I’ll drop you home.”
Aeron called someone, handed my car keys off, and insisted on driving me home himself.
When he pulled up outside my house, I reached for the door, but his fingers closed softly around my wrist, stopping me.
With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out—a small, watch-shaped box, and my heart skipped.
My watch. Dad’s watch. The shattered dial had been repaired, faint metallic lines now tracing the cracks, almost as if they'd been intentionally designed. How had he gotten it? I’d thought I’d lost it for good after emptying my bag and finding nothing.
“I fixed it to fit you exactly.” He fastened it securely around my wrist. “It won’t slide around anymore.”
And it did fit, sat perfectly on my wrist, just as he'd said.
He met my eyes. “Even if it breaks again, you’ll know someone can put it back together—even more beautifully.”
Even more beautifully.