If Lily were to tell Aaron's story, she would say he didn't change suddenly.
He changed the way seasons do—slowly, subtly, almost unnoticed unless you really paid attention.
And she had always paid attention.
When she first met him, he looked like someone who kept half of himself hidden behind a door only he had the key to. His shoulders held a tension that never quite released, his eyes flicking toward every movement like he was waiting for something—anything—to go wrong. He smiled politely, spoke softly, and carried himself with the caution of someone who had learned life could shift without warning.
He wasn't cold.
He wasn't distant.
Just… guarded.
Like he lived in a world where happiness could be taken away at any moment.
But then weeks turned to months, and living with the Martes family did something to him—something gentle, something subtle. The caution never disappeared, but it eased, unraveling thread by thread.
He laughed more openly.
He stood a little taller.
He walked through the house like he belonged there, even if he still paused in the doorway sometimes, as if double-checking that he was allowed to enter.
That habit never quite left him.
Lily doubted it ever would.
Even now, after almost a year, Aaron still double-knocked before stepping into her room. Even now, he sometimes apologized for things that didn't need apologies. Even now, when the world was quiet and the evening soft, there were moments when his eyes drifted somewhere far away—places he didn't talk about unless she asked gently.
He hadn't shed those pieces of himself.
But he had learned to carry them differently.
She loved that about him.
That he didn't try to pretend he was healed.
That he didn't force himself to be someone he wasn't.
He had grown—absolutely.
But he had grown in his own way, in his own time.
He warmed to people slowly, like someone easing into sunlit water.
He trusted carefully, but when he trusted, it was wholehearted.
He let himself be part of the family, but still sat on the edge of the couch sometimes, like he needed a second to remind himself that he was allowed to take up space.
And love…
that was the most beautiful change of all.
His beliefs about it hadn't flipped overnight.
They had shifted gradually—like a door slowly nudging open.
He began to see love not as something fragile and dangerous, but as something he was allowed to feel. Something he could give. Something he didn't need to apologize for wanting.
He didn't flirt boldly or speak grand confessions.
That would never be him.
Instead, his love showed in quieter ways:
In the way he poured her tea before making his own.
In the way he steadied her elbow without pointing it out.
In the way he listened—even to the things she didn't say out loud.
In the way he smiled at her, soft and unguarded, when he thought she wasn't looking.
He still had walls.
He still had shadows.
He still had moments when fear flickered through his eyes like an old memory resurfacing.
But now, he didn't face those moments alone.
Now, when he shut down a little, she noticed.
And when he hesitated, she waited.
And when he needed space, she gave it without stepping away.
Because she understood him better than anyone.
She saw the version of him no one else saw—the boy who wanted to love but was afraid of hurting again, the young man learning how to trust the world one gentle step at a time.
Aaron may have changed, but he was still himself.
Still thoughtful.
Still cautious.
Still quietly brave.
And she loved him not because he became someone new…
but because he slowly, carefully allowed himself to be more of who he always had been.
If Aaron were to tell Lily's story, he wouldn't start with the park either.
He would start with the moment after he carried her crutches back to her and she laughed—not because the situation was funny, but because she refused to let fear have the last word.
That laugh cracked something inside him.
Because Lily… Lily was strength woven into softness.
She didn't hide her pain, but she didn't let it swallow her either.
Even when she trembled, she faced the world like someone who had already lost too much to back down now.
He admired her before he even knew her name.
And over time—over long evenings, shared meals, quiet days on the porch—he learned things about her that the world didn't see.
She was brave in ways no one clapped for.
The kind of courage that looked like getting out of bed on bad days, and pushing through physio even when her hands shook, and laughing at herself when frustration threatened to spill over.
She wasn't afraid to cry, which was something Aaron never stopped marveling at.
Not because he pitied her—never that—but because she let emotions have space, instead of locking them away the way he did.
If someone had asked him what Lily believed back then, he would've said:
She believed life had knocked her down too many times.
She believed people had limits.
She believed some things were just broken forever.
But she also believed in trying anyway.
And that… that was what drew him to her.
She didn't try to inspire anyone.
She didn't play the hero.
She simply existed with all her cracks showing—and still managed to shine through every one of them.
Over the months, he watched her change too.
Not in the way she moved—though yes, that changed gently, proudly, step by trembling step.
Not in her confidence—although that grew, blooming like a late autumn flower.
Not even in her laughter—though that, too, came easier.
He saw something deeper shift.
She let people in more.
She shared her fears without apologizing for them.
She stopped thinking of her limits as failures.
She let joy take up space again.
But the biggest change—the one he felt in his bones—was how she looked at her future.
In the beginning, her eyes held the uncertainty of someone who didn't know what tomorrow might steal from her.
Now…
now they held questions instead of fear.
What could I become?
What am I capable of?
Where might this road lead me?
And sometimes, when he caught her looking at him—really looking—he felt the unspoken question beneath those:
Where might we go together?
That terrified him.
Not because he didn't want it.
But because he did.
Aaron had always been careful with his heart.
Too careful, maybe.
But Lily… she made caution feel unnecessary.
She made hope feel possible.
She made him believe that maybe—just maybe—love didn't have to hurt.
Yet he never said the words.
Not out loud.
Instead, he showed her in quieter ways:
By never missing a session.
By holding her steady before she even asked.
By sitting with her in silence on days when silence was all she could manage.
By memorizing her favorite songs, her favorite teas, the way her ears dipped when she was embarrassed.
By listening.
By staying.
He didn't expect anything in return.
He didn't dare hope.
But he noticed the way she changed around him, too.
The way she trusted him first.
The way she relaxed when he entered a room.
The way she smiled at him like she knew something he didn't.
The way her presence made him feel… safe.
Safe.
A word he hadn't used in a very, very long time.
He wasn't sure what they were yet.
Or what they would become.
He was still learning to step toward things instead of away from them.
But when he looked at her—laughing softly as she teased him, or concentrating fiercely during physio, or simply breathing beside him—he felt something he didn't have a name for.
Not yet.
It was warm.
And steady.
And frightening in a way that made him smile without meaning to.
If Aaron were to tell Lily's story, it would be this:
She was the first person who made him want to stay.
The first person who made him believe he wasn't broken beyond repair.
The first person who made the future feel like something worth walking toward.
She changed him.
And he knew—quietly, humbly, certainly—that he had changed her too.
But through every change, she remained herself.
Soft.
Determined.
Radiant.
Lily.
And maybe that was why he loved her—
not in grand declarations,
but in quiet, constant ways he hoped she noticed.
Because she didn't need to become someone new.
She just needed to be who she already was.
And he…
he was learning how to meet her there.
Dave had never been the sentimental type. At least, that's what he always told himself. But every now and then—usually when he least expected it—he'd catch a moment between Aaron and Lily that made something warm press against his ribs.
It happened in the little things.
The way Lily's shoulders relaxed the second Aaron walked into a room.
The way Aaron's voice softened when he spoke to her, as though every word was something carefully chosen, gently handled.
Carla noticed it too. She always had.
Some evenings she would lean against the kitchen doorway, arms loosely folded, watching them at the dining table. Lily sketching something animatedly, Aaron listening with that faint half-smile he rarely shared with anyone else. There was something tender in it—small, but unmistakable.
But Dave felt the changes before he saw them.
It started the night he first stood in that Care Center hallway, rain on his coat and doubt coiled in his chest. He remembered walking into that small break room and seeing Aaron for the first time—quiet, steady, glowing in places he didn't seem to realize still glowed.
Back then, Aaron had looked like someone built from caution. Every movement deliberate. Every emotion folded neatly away. A young man who held himself like he expected the world to fall apart at any moment.
And Lily…
Lily had been hurting in ways Dave could only guess at. She was brave, stubborn, hopeful—but fragile too, buried under her own fear of being left behind.
Dave never could've predicted that these two broken pieces would fit so gently together.
Carla saw it from the domestic side—the softening of Lily's voice, the way she laughed more now, the bright spark she thought had been lost forever. She also noticed Aaron's shifts: how the young man who once hovered like he expected to be pushed away now sat comfortably at their table, sleeves rolled up, tea in hand, fitting into the rhythm of their home without forcing himself.
He still kept parts of himself tucked away, of course. Some habits don't disappear—they simply soften.
He still paused before accepting help.
Still scanned a room instinctively.
Still tensed at loud noises or sudden emotions.
But he also smiled more.
Listened more openly.
Trusted more freely.
Dave, who valued actions over words, watched them in moments like the therapy center morning—Aaron crouched beside Lily, speaking quietly to her fears, grounding her with steady reassurance. He watched him wait through the entire session, unmoving, eyes fixed on the door as if willing her strength from a distance.
And then he watched their faces when she walked again, however small the step.
Lily shining.
Aaron glowing in a way that had nothing to do with his markings.
Carla knew then what Dave took a bit longer to admit:
These two had changed each other.
Lily brought color back into Aaron's world.
Aaron brought safety back into Lily's.
And together… they made the house feel full again.
One night, after Lily had gone to bed and Aaron was cleaning the mugs in the sink—humming softly, unaware he was being watched—Dave stood beside Carla in the hallway.
She nudged him. "He's good for her."
Dave nodded, arms crossed but eyes softening. "She's good for him too."
Carla's smile widened. "You don't say that lightly."
"No," he admitted. "I don't."
They watched a moment longer as Aaron quietly wiped down the counters, moving with that calm, careful grace he'd carried since the beginning—but now without the weight that once shadowed it.
"You know," Carla murmured, "when Lily first mentioned him… I didn't think she'd ever trust anyone like that again."
Dave exhaled slowly. "Neither did I."
"And now?"
Dave's gaze traveled to the living room, where Lily's sketchbook lay open—filled with drawings of warm places, bright mornings, and always, always two figures side by side.
"Now," he said, voice quiet, "I think they're healing each other."
Carla slipped her hand into his.
"Then we must've made the right choice."
Dave didn't answer immediately.
He was thinking about that room full of paper cranes, about the boy with glowing blue eyes who accepted a job that would change all their lives.
Finally he spoke, low and certain:
"One of the best choices we've ever made."
And downstairs in the kitchen, Aaron set the last mug aside, unaware of the way two parents stood in the shadows—grateful, proud, and watching something beautiful unfold.