The sound of soft wheels crunching over gravel broke the morning quiet. Damian Sinclair stood at the villa's grand entrance, his posture calm but his heart restless. The sunlight poured through the tall trees, flickering across the stone steps where he'd been waiting for nearly an hour.
He hadn't told Amara her parents were coming.
He wanted it to be a surprise—something tender to mend what life had broken.
When the sleek black car rolled to a stop, he exhaled slowly, almost in relief. Mr. and Mrs. Castellanos stepped out, their faces drawn with fatigue and hope. Mrs. Castellanos clutched her purse like a lifeline; her husband's shoulders bore the weight of sleepless worry.
"Mr. and Mrs. Castellanos," Damian greeted warmly, bowing his head slightly. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
Mrs. Castellanos's lips trembled into a small smile. "Thank you for calling, Damian. You said she's better, but I couldn't rest until I saw her myself."
"She's recovering well," he assured. "The fever broke days ago. She's… a little weak, but she's safe now."
Mr. Castellanos placed a heavy hand on Damian's shoulder—an unspoken blessing, a gesture that carried gratitude. "Thank you for taking care of our girl. We owe you more than words."
Damian shook his head. "You don't owe me anything, sir. Amara… means a lot to me."
That quiet truth lingered between them. Her parents exchanged a knowing look—one of surprise, but not disapproval.
He led them through the villa's sunlit corridors, where soft piano music drifted faintly from the distance. The marble floors gleamed under the filtered morning light, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen.
They paused at Amara's room. Damian stepped aside, gesturing for them to enter first.
When Mrs. Castellanos saw her daughter, her breath hitched. "Amara…"
Amara looked up, dazed at first, until recognition flooded her features. Her eyes filled instantly. "M-Mama? Papa?"
Mrs. Castellanos rushed forward, cupping her daughter's face in trembling hands. "Oh, my sweetheart," she whispered, pressing desperate kisses against Amara's forehead and cheeks. "Look at you—you're so pale…"
Amara tried to smile through the tears. "I'm sorry, Mama. I didn't want to make you worry."
"You never have to apologize for hurting," her father said gently, brushing his calloused thumb across her cheek. "We'll come running, no matter how far you are."
Damian quietly stepped back, giving them space. His chest tightened as he watched the reunion. Every tear Amara shed made something inside him ache. She looked so small, so breakable — and yet she still tried to be strong.
When Amara's crying slowed, Mrs. Castellanos turned toward him. "Thank you," she said softly. "For staying by her side."
Damian's smile was small but steady "She's strong. I only made sure she had a place to rest."
The room was filled with quiet understanding. Amara looked up, her gaze meeting his for a brief second. She wanted to say something, but her throat felt heavy. So instead, she gave a small, fragile smile—one that Damian treasured more than any words.
The next few days flowed like a soft tide at dawn — slow, gentle, and full of healing.
Amara's parents stayed nearby, filling the villa with homely warmth. Her mother cooked her favourite dishes, humming while she stirred soups and chopped vegetables, while her father spent mornings walking with her in the garden, speaking little but always staying close.
And Damian—he was there, always. Not in a loud or intrusive way, but quietly, like a soft shadow that never left her side. He handled her meals, making sure her meals were on time, and every night he checked on her before going to his own room.
He didn't try to talk about Kael. He didn't mention love. He simply became the stillness she could lean on.
Sometimes, Amara would watch him from across the room. How quietly he carried his kindness — the way he smiled at her parents, or how he fixed a curtain that let in too much light.
He was a presence she hadn't known she needed — quiet, patient, grounding.
And that made her heart ache in a way she didn't quite understand.
She began to speak more each day. Sometimes small talk, sometimes laughter—hesitant, then freer.
By the fifth day, she was walking through the garden with her father. Damian watched from the terrace, pretending to read a report while listening to their voices drift through the air.
"Papa," Amara murmured, leaning against his arm, "how do you stop missing something that hurt you?"
Mr. Castellanos smiled faintly. "You don't stop missing it, Amara. You just learn to live around the empty space."
Her eyes softened. "Does it ever stop aching?"
"Not always. But someday, someone—or something—makes the ache worth it."
Her gaze wandered back toward the terrace, where Damian stood with sunlight haloing his hair. She looked away quickly, her heart betraying her.
That night, the house grew quiet again. Amara's parents had retired to their room. Damian lingered by her door, checking one last time before leaving. She stirred slightly and opened her eyes.
"You should rest," she murmured. "You look more tired than I do."
He smiled faintly, one hand resting on the doorknob. "If I sleep, who'll make sure you don't run off again?"
She chuckled weakly. "I'm not going anywhere."
"Good," he whispered, his gaze softening. "Then I can rest too."
He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him. "Damian… thank you."
He looked back, surprised by the sincerity in her tone.
"For everything," she added.
He nodded once, quietly. "Always."
And for the first time in weeks, Amara fell asleep without nightmares.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of rain and roses. Inside, two hearts that had known too much silence began to remember the sound of peace.