Chapter Forty-Six Joshua #2
She stood still when I slipped the helmet onto her head, fingers brushing the strands of her hair as I adjusted the strap under her chin. The glass visor caught the light, and for a second, when she looked up, our eyes met through that thin, curved barrier.
Brown and green.
Warm and cold.
A mirror and its opposite.
For a heartbeat, I almost forgot to breathe.
She was so close.
So real.
And I knew, even if I lived another lifetime, I’d still remember this image: her standing there, helmet reflecting the glow of the city lights, eyes soft but strong.
I looked away first, pretending to adjust my own helmet just to steady myself.
Don’t fuck up the last day together, Lockhart. I’ll kill you.
I swung my leg over the bike, the seat familiar, the vibration settling under me like an old heartbeat I hadn’t felt in years.
I glanced over my shoulder and patted the space behind me.
“Sit,” I said, voice lower than I meant it to be.
She hesitated for a second, then carefully swung her leg over and sat down. Her hands hovered uncertainly near her sides before I muttered,
“Hold on.”
Slowly, hesitantly, her arms wrapped around my waist. Tight at first, then looser, more comfortable. Her cheek pressed against my back.
And as I revved the engine, the garage echoed with the sound of something I hadn’t heard in too long: life.
I didn’t look back when we pulled out onto the road.
But I felt it.
The way her hold tightened as the city lights blurred past us. The way the night air hit my face, sharp and alive.
The moment we hit the main road, I felt her stiffen. Every muscle in her body locked up, her grip on my waist like iron. Her knees pressed into my sides as if she were trying to stay anchored to the world while the wind rushed around us.
I could feel her heartbeat, fast, uneven through the layers of fabric between us.
She was scared.
I slowed down just a little, leaning into the curve of the road as the engine hummed steadily beneath us. Then, without thinking, I reached back with one hand and tapped her thigh lightly.
“Hey,” I said over my shoulder, my voice just loud enough to cut through the wind.
Nothing.
She didn’t relax. Her arms only tightened around me again, her breathing shallow against my back.
So I tried something else.
My thumb brushed a slow circle against her thigh, signalling her to breathe.
Again.
And again.
It was instinct. I didn’t even think about it.
The same way I used to calm Honey when she got restless or steady my own hands when the past crept in too close.
I felt her flinch once. Then her fingers loosened. Her head dropped lightly against my back, the tension melting bit by bit as we rode past the city lights.
The rhythm of the bike, the wind, the hum of the tyres—all of it seemed to wrap around us until the world blurred away.
“I won’t let you get hurt,” I said, quiet enough that only she could hear it, not even sure if she did. But her arms shifted then, still holding on, but not from fear. Something softer. Something that made my heart pound against my ribs so hard that it hurt.
So I kept one hand steady on the throttle, the other tracing lazy, grounding circles against her leg as we drove up the winding hill.
The city stretched below us like a sea of gold. Her weight against me grew lighter, and I knew that right now, she was mine to keep safe.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Joshua
The engine died with a low growl that faded into the night, leaving nothing but the hum of the wind and the city sprawled below us like a sea of glittering gold.
Aurora climbed off first, her movements careful, quiet. She tugged the helmet off with both hands, strands of hair spilling down past her shoulders, the cold air turning her breath into little clouds.
I followed, boots crunching against the gravel as I swung my leg over the bike. Took my helmet off and set it beside hers on the seat.
And then—silence.
The kind that wasn’t peaceful.
The kind that screamed.
She stood a few feet ahead, staring out at the city lights. The way they reflected in her eyes made them look almost wet, as if she were holding something back.
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets because I didn’t trust myself not to reach for her. Didn’t trust myself not to ruin this moment, too.
The wind picked up. Cold. Sharp. It bit at my skin, but I couldn’t feel much of anything except the ache in my chest.
I looked at her, the slope of her shoulders, the way her hoodie danced in the wind, the faint curve of her jaw as she looked down at the world that kept moving even when ours had stopped.
This was it.
Our last night.
Our last quiet before everything changed again.
University would start next week.
Her arm had healed.
Her reason for staying was gone.
Everything we’d built these past weeks, the fragile truce, the peace, the comfort, would all fade back into what it was before.
Her life. My mess. Separate worlds.
The silence between us was too loud, and yet… I couldn’t break it. Not when she looked so still. So heavy with everything we didn’t say.
I took a slow step forward, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes, and stopped beside her. She didn’t move. Didn’t look at me. Just whispered, barely audible—
“It’s beautiful.”
I nodded, eyes on her.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “It is.”
She was standing there with the night wrapped around her, unknowingly holding every piece of me I swore I’d never give to anyone again.
She turned.
Just like that. One slow movement, and the wind caught her hair, pushing a few strands across her face.
There was something in her eyes that froze me, not anger, not pity… something softer. Something I hadn’t earned.
Her cast was gone now, but her hand still looked small, delicate, and pale against the dark sky.
She lifted it slowly, reaching out between us.
“I’m Aurora.”
Her voice was quiet, a little shaky, but real. And then, after a beat—
“Friends?”
I just stared at her.
For a second, I didn’t even move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t trust what I was hearing.
Friends.
After everything.
After the bruises and the scars and the apologies that came too late. After the pool, the hospital and her tears that wouldn’t stop. After I promised to make our limited time together worth it, knowing I’d already ruined everything that could’ve been.
She was offering me this.
A hand. A start. Forgiveness, everything I didn’t deserve, she offered me.
My throat tightened. I looked at her hand, trembling just slightly in the cold, and then up at her face. She was waiting. Patient. Hopeful in the quietest way possible. I swallowed hard, the lump in my chest too heavy to speak through, and finally reached out.
Our fingers met halfway, and the second I wrapped my hand around hers, it hit me: warmth.
Real human warmth that I hadn’t felt in so long.
“Joshua,” I said.
That’s all I could manage.
But it was enough.
Her lips curved into something soft, something that made her look angelic to me. Something I didn’t want to look away from.
And she didn’t let go.
God, she didn’t let go.
Her hand stayed in mine, small and sure, as if maybe we could both pretend for just a minute that we hadn’t broken each other. Like maybe this was what healing looked like: quiet, hesitant, still trembling.
She then let go.
Slowly. Gently. Like she didn’t really want to, but knew she had to.
Her fingers slipped from mine, leaving that ghost of warmth behind, just enough to make my palm ache when the cold air hit it again.
And then she turned back to the view, shoulders rising and falling with a soft exhale, her hair brushing against her cheek as the wind caught it.
Friends.
That word still echoed in my head as if it didn’t belong to me.
Joshua Lockhart doesn’t get friends. Not one like her.
One that gives second chances, one that was too kind for someone like him.
He ruins things. Breaks them. Pushes them away before they can leave first. But right here, tonight, I tried.
For the first time, I actually tried. And she saw that.
She didn’t have to. She could’ve walked away after everything I did, after all the ways I’d hurt her, but she didn’t. She reached out instead.
She didn’t let me go.
Not when I was at my lowest. Not when I thought I’d lost her for good. She stayed long enough to hold out her hand and offer friendship, as if I meant something.
I stood there behind her, watching the city lights flicker below us, and I couldn’t stop the small curve of my lips. It wasn’t a grin. It wasn’t even a full smile.
Just this small, quiet pull that felt foreign and heavy at the same time. Because now, it didn’t feel like I was the villain in her story.
Not the bully.
Not the mistake.
Not the stranger she regretted ever meeting.
Just Joshua.
Her friend.
And maybe that’s all I’d ever get. Maybe that’s all I deserved. But standing there under that sky, beside the girl who taught me what it meant to feel again, it felt like enough.
She’s my friend.
My friend.
And I think that’s a win for someone like me.
—
The ride back was quiet, but not an awkward quiet.
It was… calm. The kind that sits warm in your chest and hums softly in the silence.
Friends.
I still couldn’t wrap my head around it. But I didn’t want to ruin it either.
When we got to the building, she mumbled that she missed Honey, and before I could even answer, she was already pressing the elevator button. I followed, pretending not to smile.
The second I unlocked the door, a tiny orange blur came running out from the hallway, Honey’s little paws sliding on the floor.
Aurora dropped to her knees instantly, arms open, laughing softly as the kitten pounced into her lap. I shook my head and went to grab the blanket off the couch.
“Come on, before you freeze,” I said as she followed behind, plopping down on the couch as I pulled the cover over her lap. Honey peeked her head out of the blanket, staring up at us with her big eyes.
Oops, sorry, Honey. Didn’t see you there.
“Movie?” I asked, already picking up the remote.
She nodded.
So I scrolled through the list and picked something random, just for the background noise. Some comfort film. I didn’t even care what it was; I just liked the way the light from the TV reflected off her face.
A few minutes later, I walked back from the kitchen with two mugs. Steam rising, the smell of cocoa filling the room.
I handed her one, careful not to spill.
“Hot chocolate,” I said quietly. “Don’t say I never give you anything that isn’t trouble.”
Her lips curved slightly as she blew on the drink
We sat there for hours.
Honey purring between us, the movie murmuring in the background, the world outside forgotten.
No tension. No anger.
Just quiet.
She was here.
Still here.
Aurora Mae Campbell, my friend, the girl who turned my chaos into something human again.
I glanced over at her once more, blanket pulled up to her chin, eyelashes fluttering as she started to drift off mid-movie. Honey’s tail twitched against her arm, and I reached out to adjust the blanket higher over her shoulders.
Yeah.
Best friends.
Halfway through the movie, her head started to dip.
It was gradual at first, a slow blink, her chin lowering, her fingers still absently tracing Honey’s fur. Then another blink, longer this time, until her body leaned ever so slightly toward me.
I stayed still.
Didn’t even breathe too loudly.
Honey shifted on her lap, curling tighter, a tiny purr rumbling through the quiet of the room. Aurora’s head eventually found its place against my shoulder, her hair brushing the side of my jaw, soft and faintly smelling like vanilla.
I glanced down.
Her lashes fluttered once, then stilled. Out cold.
Her breathing evened out, slow, peaceful, the kind that only happens when someone finally lets go of everything weighing them down.
And my chest… did this weird thing. That tight, burning ache that wasn’t pain, but wasn’t calm either.
I turned my head again slightly to look at her face. She looked different when she was sleeping. Softer, as if the world hadn’t touched her yet. The little crease between her brows was gone. No walls, no guarded eyes. Just Aurora, real, raw, unguarded.
Honey’s paw twitched against her arm, and I gently adjusted the blanket so it covered both of them.
She didn’t stir. Just nuzzled closer.
Her head was right against my shoulder now. My hoodie was probably soaked with her warmth, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t moving. My arm rested carefully along the back of the couch, not touching her, but close enough to feel the faint rise and fall of her breathing against me.
I looked down once more.
Aurora asleep. Honey asleep. Both of them curled up against me as if I were something safe.
I wasn’t safe.
But they acted as if I was. So I want to be, I want to always be safe for my two girls.
“Sleep well, Princess,” I murmured quietly, almost to myself.