Sixty hearts blue 1

They lay side by side on the grass, watching clouds drift across the sky. Hours passed in silence, but Roselle didn't mind. She turned her head, her heart swelling as she took in Stephen's face—the sharp lines softened by the sunlight, the blue of his eyes as endless as the sky above them. Without thinking, she reached out, tracing the curve of his cheek with her fingers. He felt real, solid. Hers.

His gaze met hers, warm and knowing.

"Make love to me," she whispered.

Stephen blinked, the words settling between them like a challenge. Then, with quiet certainty, he shook his head. "Rose… you know I can't. Let's wait. I want our first time to be special." His fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns on her cheek, trying to soothe the frustration he knew was coming.

She frowned, unyielding. "I'm twenty, Stephen. My friends think it's strange that I'm still a virgin. They say you don't love me—that's why you won't touch me."

Stephen exhaled, half amused, half exasperated. He loved Roselle, but he'd learned that laughter wasn't always welcome in serious moments like this. He pulled her closer instead, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "Your friends are jealous," he murmured.

Her frown deepened. "What's funny?"

"Nothing," he lied, flashing that boyish grin—the one that always made her heart skip.

Roselle studied him, memorizing every detail: the confident slant of his lips, the way his thick eyebrows framed those piercing blue eyes. He was hers, but sometimes, she wished she could make him prove it.

"I love you, Rose," Stephen said, voice quieter now, edged with emotion.

She knew he meant it. She'd seen it in the way he looked at her the first time they met—when she sat on a bench, waiting for the bus, a book in her lap. His gaze had lingered, full of something unspoken, and before she even knew his name, she had fallen for him.

Now, years later, that love hadn't faded. If anything, it had deepened, tangled itself into the very fabric of who she was.

Roselle nestled into him, inhaling the familiar scent of his clothes. "How's your grandma?"

Stephen's expression softened. "Better. I took her to the clinic yesterday. The doctor gave her new medication. She's strong, Rose. She'll pull through."

She reached for his hand, squeezing gently. He laced their fingers together, and for a while, neither of them spoke. The world outside didn't exist.

Stephen broke the silence first. "I want our first child to be a girl." His voice was low, filled with quiet longing. "As beautiful as you… after we get married."

Roselle's breath hitched as his hand brushed against her stomach. The gesture was subtle, yet it held a promise—one that made warmth spread through her chest.

"And if it's a boy?" she asked, barely above a whisper.

Stephen smiled. "Doesn't matter. As long as they're ours."

For a moment, she couldn't speak. Instead, she just looked at him, feeling the weight of everything unspoken.

Stephen took her hands, his grip firm but gentle. "I can't wait to make you my wife, Rose. That'll be the best day of my life."

Roselle swallowed, emotions swelling in her throat. "And I'll gladly say 'I do.'"

She meant it. More than anything, she wanted forever with him.

Stephen leaned in, their lips meeting in a kiss that was more than just a kiss—it was a promise, a vow. When they finally pulled apart, she rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"If it's not you," she whispered, "then it's no one else."

Stephen's arms tightened around her, as if sealing the moment into eternity.

Stephen smiled, lost in the memory of that evening on the grass, Roselle's laughter drifting through the warm air as they talked about their future. The way her eyes had softened, how she leaned in as if the moment could stretch forever—he had wanted nothing more than to hold her close, to keep her there, always.

Stephen."

His name pulled him back. The warmth of the memory faded as he turned toward the glass door. Michael stood there, arms crossed, watching him with a smirk that bordered on amusement. Stephen blinked, adjusting to the present, then set his glass of water down and went to let him in.

Michael stepped inside, rolling his eyes as the white curtains stirred in the evening breeze. "You were gone," he said, flopping onto the couch with an exaggerated sigh. "Lost in another world, huh?"

Stephen didn't answer immediately. Instead, he grabbed a drink from the fridge, the memory of Roselle still clinging to his thoughts. How could he forget that day? He wouldn't—couldn't.

"Seriously, man, I was out there forever." Michael ran a hand through his orange hair, feigning frustration.

Stephen scoffed, shaking his head. "Liar. I checked the door a few minutes ago, and you weren't there."

Michael smirked but didn't argue. "Fine. But it felt like forever." He grabbed the drink Stephen had set down for him, taking a long sip. His movements were quick, almost restless, like something else was pressing on his mind.

Stephen picked up his phone, thumb idly tracing the edge as he murmured, "She's the best thing that's ever happened to me, Mike." The words slipped out like a confession, one he had no hesitation in making.

Michael's jaw tensed for a fraction of a second. "You've said that so many times," he murmured, his voice light, but not entirely free of something deeper.

Stephen didn't notice. He only smiled, the kind that reached his eyes, the kind that said he was certain. "I'm in love."

Michael sighed, repeating himself—softer this time. "You've said that so many times, Stephen."

He didn't say anything more, but Stephen caught the unspoken words in his friend's gaze. A quiet warning. A silent prayer. Michael had seen love before—had seen what happened when it cracked.

The last time he had seen Roselle, Stephen had been holding her like she was his entire world. She had leaned into him, giggling, her cheeks flushed with happiness. Michael had stood off to the side, waiting, watching. Even then, worry had stirred in his chest. Love like that was rare. And rare things… they broke the hardest.

Michael cleared his throat, shaking off the thought. "I looked for you yesterday. Didn't Grandma tell you?" His gaze flickered around the room. "Where is she?"

"In her room, probably sleeping."

Stephen's voice was calm, but distant. His grandmother had raised him since his mother died. She was the only family he had left, the only home he knew. The thought of losing her was unbearable. Every night, he prayed for her recovery, knowing that if she left him, she'd take a piece of his soul with her.

Michael studied him for a moment before sighing. "Alright. Let me guess—you were with her."

Stephen smirked, not even pretending to misunderstand. "Why do you care?"

Michael threw his hands up. "Because you never tell me anything anymore!" He paced, his silver chain glinting against his sweater.

Stephen chuckled. "Because you have a big mouth."

Michael clutched his chest in mock offense. "Wow. To my face? That hurts." He dropped the act just as quickly, his grin turning knowing. "But really, I called you for something important."

Stephen barely looked up. "I don't believe you."

Michael spread his arms. "Lisa is back."

Stephen paused, his brows pulling together. "Lisa? What Lisa?"

"Lisabeth. Bruce Springsteen's daughter. The girl who had the biggest crush on you in high school?"

Stephen frowned, the memory surfacing—a nervous brown-eyed girl, fumbling over her words every time she tried to talk to him. "I thought she moved to London."

"She did. But now she's back. Just got into town yesterday."

Stephen stared at him for a moment. Then he sighed, shaking his head. "That was the urgent news?"

Michael grinned. "Not just that. She asked about you."

The reaction he expected never came. Stephen's face remained unreadable as he returned his focus to the laptop. "What did you tell her?"

Michael shrugged. "That you were hanging out with friends."

Stephen snorted. "I have two friends, Mike. And John's been in Paris for five years. She probably saw through that lie."

Michael laughed but pressed on. "She left something for you."

Stephen's fingers paused over the keyboard. "I have a girlfriend, Mike."

"So?" Michael leaned back, unbothered. "A gift is just a gift. You're not cheating by accepting it."

"I don't want it."

"You don't even know what it is."

"I don't need to."

Michael exhaled, watching him. "Man, you're impossible." He wandered to the paintings on the wall, staring at them as if they'd somehow change. "You know… Lisa's really pretty."

Stephen shot him a look. A warning.

Michael put his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright, I'll drop it. But if you ever run into her, at least tell her you got the package."

Stephen didn't reply. His thoughts had already drifted, slipping away from Michael's words, away from everything but Roselle—her voice, her smile, the feeling of being with her.

And just like that, the world faded again.

Only she remained.