Chapter Thirty-Seven Aurora
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Aurora
I pushed myself up, the blanket slipping off my lap, and grabbed my phone with my good hand.
Typing hurt, but it was easier than trying to speak.
Me: I’m leaving. Thanks.
I hit send before I could overthink it.
He saw the message. His hand twitched, as if he almost reached out, but then he stopped himself. His fingers curled into a loose fist, knuckles whitening for a second before he let go.
I slipped on my shoes in silence, heart thudding too loud in my chest.
Then, his voice broke through the quiet.
“Uh…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Dinner.”
I froze, hand on the doorknob.
He cleared his throat. “Can you—cook?” A beat. “I can.”
It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t planned. It came out rushed and awkward, like the words fought him on the way out.
I turned around, my gaze meeting his. He was standing by the couch now, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes darting anywhere but me. His hair was falling down past his eyes, and his hoodie sleeves were rolled up just enough to show the veins along his forearms.
He looked… normal. Nervous, even.
Like a boy asking a girl to stay for dinner, not a man trying to make up for breaking her.
My chest tightened.
Me: You don’t have to.
His jaw flexed, as if he were swallowing words that wanted to come out. “Maybe not,” he muttered, voice low. “But I want to.”
I blinked.
And for some reason, I didn’t leave right away.
My hand slipped from the doorknob, phone still in my palm, as he stepped toward the kitchen, hesitant, careful, waiting for me to follow.
I still stood by the door, clutching my phone, watching him fumble with a pan. He set it down, looked at me, then back at the counter again.
And then, under his breath but loud enough for me to hear, he said, “Better than hurting. Or buying.”
He paused, grabbed a wooden spoon, and twirled it between his fingers as if it were something to do with his hands.
“Or… doing dishes,” he added, tone deadpan.
I blinked, stunned.
Joshua Lockhart, cold, terrifying Joshua, just said something quite funny.
Kind of.
And he didn’t even realise it. That—that almost made me smile.
I decided to stay. I don’t know why, but a part of me also didn’t want to leave yet. Instead, I quietly walked closer, setting my phone down on the counter beside him.
He stood over the stove, sleeves rolled up, hair messy, stirring something that smelled way better than it looked. The overhead light cast a soft glow on him, his face relaxed for once, his movements quiet and careful, as if every sound mattered.
I sat on the counter, just watching.
It was strange seeing him like this: domestic, human. The Joshua who didn’t hide behind silence or coldness, who didn’t carry that heavy shadow around his eyes.
He looked up once, just once, to check if I was watching. And when our eyes met, he didn’t scowl or look away like he usually did. He just blinked, lips twitching faintly, and said, “Stop staring. You’re making me nervous.”
I wanted to laugh, but it got caught somewhere in my throat. Because how could I laugh when it felt like I was witnessing something I wasn’t supposed to?
Something private.
Joshua Lockhart—silver spoon, captain, heir, mean—was standing there barefoot in his kitchen, cooking for me like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And I was watching him.
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t fair that I couldn’t stay away. Couldn’t stop caring.
Because it’s stupid, isn’t it? To care about the person who hurt you? To sit on his counter, watching him cook like some normal boy when he was anything but?
But here I was.
Watching his shoulders tense as he strained the pasta, water hissing in the sink, his jaw flexing as he tried to play off how seriously he was taking this.
And my heart, my dumb, traitorous heart didn’t care about the logic.
It just whispered, he’s trying.
Trying to be gentle.
Trying to be better.
Trying for me.
And that was all it took.
I didn’t need grand gestures or apologies carved into marble. Just this, him fumbling over dinner and still glancing up to make sure I was okay.
And maybe that was why I’d never learn. Because when it came to him, I never had survival instincts.
Just faith.
Blind, reckless, aching faith in a boy who broke me.
It’s odd.
It really is.
But… I guess a greedy part of me, the attention-deprived part, liked it. I don’t know why. Maybe because when Joshua looked at me, really looked, it felt like I existed a little louder than usual. Like all the quiet I’d lived in suddenly had an echo.
I had friends now, real ones. Jennie with her sunshine voice, Layla with her soft heart, Aly with her blunt care.
I even liked Miles.
He was the kind of boy who made everything feel easy, warm, steady, safe. The type you could trust to never raise his voice or make you cry.
But when it came to Joshua…
It was different.
It was dangerous.
It was confusing.
He didn’t look at me the way Miles did.
Miles looked and saw the surface, sweet girl, shy smile, steady silence.
Joshua looked and somehow saw through it. Like he knew where it hurt. Like he’d memorised every fracture in me because he recognised it in himself.
And maybe that was what made it so hard to hate him. Because he didn’t just notice me. He saw me, the ugly parts, the scared parts, the tired parts, and still stayed close enough to burn.
It’s selfish, I know.
To crave the kind of attention that hurts as much as it heals. But with him… it felt like I finally mattered.
Even when it hurt.
Even when I shouldn’t want it.
Even when I tell myself I don’t.
Joshua made me feel seen in ways I didn’t think I deserved.
He placed the plate in front of me, carefully, as if it were some priceless thing that might break if he breathed too close.
The smell hit first, warm and buttery, and it looked… good. Really good.
I picked up the fork and twirled a bite, pretending not to notice that he was still standing there. Watching. Like waiting for a reaction was the scariest part of all this.
When I finally took a bite, his stare didn’t ease.
If anything, it got worse.
I looked up slowly, meeting his eyes, and he didn’t even try to hide it, this quiet, restless kind of curiosity sitting behind them, like he needed my approval more than he’d ever admit.
So I grabbed my phone, fingers still clumsy with my cast, and typed a quick message before holding it up.
Surprisingly edible
His brows lifted. He caught it. Read it.
And the faintest twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth, as if he wanted to smile but was physically fighting himself not to.
“Yeah?” he muttered under his breath, half amused, half disbelieving.
I shrugged, forcing myself not to smile, not to give in, not to let the warmth that was starting to build in my chest show on my face.
He was holding it back, too, I could tell by the way his jaw clenched slightly, his gaze flicking away like smiling might ruin everything.
For a few seconds, the silence felt softer than it had in months. Just the sound of forks against plates, the TV murmuring in the background, and him sitting across from me pretending not to care if I finished the food, but watching every time I did.
And maybe, just maybe, for tonight… that was enough.