CHAPTER FOURTEEN: FINALLY SEEING YOU CLEARLY

Lily nestled beneath the covers, the soft scent of laundry detergent and a lingering trace of Lance's cologne still clinging faintly to the oversized coat draped at the foot of her bed. Her room was dark, save for the faint amber glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. The world outside had gone still, and for the first time, sleep came gently.

She drifted.

In the dream, she was running barefoot across a meadow, the air warm and golden. The wildflowers brushed against her ankles, and the sky above seemed to shimmer like melted glass. A feeling of deep knowing settled into her chest—this place, this moment, had lived in her heart forever.

Ahead of her stood the man, he was always there in her dreams, the one with the soft voice and strong hands. The one who always reached out to her with all his might, the one whom she always seemed to leave behind.

Usually, his face was veiled in shadow—frustratingly close, heartbreakingly familiar, and always just out of reach. But not tonight.

Tonight, the light shifted.

Tonight, the veil lifted.

And there he was.

Lance.

Not as he looked tonight, but still unmistakably him. The same steady gaze, the same quiet intensity. He reached out a hand toward her—his eyes locked on hers with a kind of certainty that made her chest ache.

"Lily," he whispered.

Then the dream shifted again, melted into darkness, and slipped away.

She woke to the faint hush of wind brushing the windows.

Her heart was calm, not racing. But her mind buzzed with the image, strangely vivid.

Lance.

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, golden and lazy. Lily stretched beneath the sheets, feeling well-rested in a way that surprised her. Her mind wandered back to the dream—the field, the hand, the face, Lance.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A small grin tugged at her lips as she reached for it. His name lit up the screen. She swiped to answer.

"Good morning, Doctor Dreamboat."

A short pause. Then laughter on the other end.

"Doctor Dreamboat? That's new."

"Well," she said, rolling onto her side, "you did visit me in a dream last night." "Oh?" He sounded amused. "Was I doing something impressive? Curing a rare disease? Fighting off dragons with scalpels?"

"No," she said, pretending to sigh. "You were just… standing there. Existing."

"Sounds like I made quite the impression," he teased.

"You finally had a face. That's all."

There was a pause. Just a beat too long.

She quickly added, "Probably because I've been seeing you so much lately. My subconscious is just catching up."

"Maybe," he said softly. "Still... I'm honored to be promoted from Faceless Dream Man to Recognizable Figure."

She laughed. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late."

They talked for a few more minutes—about breakfast plans, the weather, and an upcoming follow-up appointment—before they said goodbye.

Lily sat up in bed, phone still in hand. She bit her lip, then opened her contacts and tapped on Claire (Aunt).

The phone barely rang once.

"Morning, sweetheart! Everything okay?"

"Guess who has a new boyfriend in town?" Lily sang, her voice laced with mischief.

There was a long gasp. "Lily Storm! Don't you play with my heart like that."

"I'm serious. He's handsome. Brilliant. A little over-serious sometimes, but I'm working on it."

Claire squealed so loudly Lily had to pull the phone away. "You're talking about Dr. Lance, aren't you? Oh my God, I knew it! I knew it from the way you blushed when he walked in!"

"I don't blush," Lily muttered, then added, "Okay, maybe a little."

After managing to hang up—still grinning—she opened her dad's contact.

"Morning, dear," he answered, groggy but warm.

"Dad," she said gently, "it's official."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Lance?"

"Yeah."

A long exhale came through the phone. "Good."

She blinked. "Good?"

"I like him. He makes you smile. Bring him home soon." That was all he said. That was all he needed to say.

Lily ended the call with a grin still tugging at her lips. Her heart felt lighter, like someone had flung open the windows to let all the old air out and let something new and fragrant drift in. She turned her phone over in her hands, staring at the blank screen for a moment before dropping it on the bed with a soft thud.

It did not take long before lily and lance went to visit Mr. Storm. Lance had actually insisted on going earlier. Standing outside their house Lily's fingers laced with Lance's as they waited outside the door. She paused, shifting the weight of her bag and her nerves.

"You sure you're ready for this?" she asked, only half-joking. "Dad can be a little…"

"Protective?" Lance offered with a soft smile.

She nodded. "And Aunt Claire will probably interrogate you about taxes, family plans, and zodiac compatibility."

Lance leaned in to kiss her forehead. "I'm ready for all of it."

The door opened before Lily even reached for the handle—her dad must've been watching from the peephole.

"Lily!" her father exclaimed, then paused when he saw Lance. His eyes dropped to their intertwined hands.

"Oh," he said, stunned.

Aunt Claire peeked out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "Well, it's about time," she said with a smirk. "Get in here, both of you."

The house was filled with warmth—ginger tea already steeping, and the scent of Aunt Claire's signature beef stew wafting from the kitchen.

As they sat in the living room, Lily's dad remained unusually quiet, eyes fixed on Lance with the unreadable gaze of a man trying to weigh years of intentions in a single night.

Eventually, he cleared his throat. "So, Doctor…"

"Lance," he corrected gently. "Please, just Lance."

"You're sure about my daughter?"

Lance didn't hesitate. "Absolutely."

Lily's dad seemed satisfied with that, he moved and leaned against the fireplace mantle, arms crossed and eyes twinkling. The mood was light, the air crackling with mischief.

Lance sat on the plush grey couch; hands wrapped around a warm mug of ginger tea. The Storm family home smelled faintly of vanilla and old books. Across from him sat Aunt Claire, her book momentarily forgotten in her lap.

Lily had gone into the kitchen to plate dessert.

"Well," Aunt Claire said the moment she disappeared, "I hope you're ready to hear about the wild creature you've fallen for."

Mr. Storm chuckled. "She's tamed now, mostly. But once upon a time…" he paused and picked up a framed photo on the shelf. Lily's mother, Lin, smiled out from it, caught forever mid-laughter. It made Lance's chest tighten just a bit.

Claire glanced at the photo. "Lin would've had the best stories."

"She always did," Mr. Storm said, then turned to Lance. "Like the time Lily cut her own bangs the night before school photos. She said she was 'helping Mommy save time.' Lin nearly fainted."

Claire added, "She used kid scissors. Left a jagged line that made her look like she'd been attacked by a lawnmower."

"And didn't she draw on her face with a marker?" Daniel said.

"Oh yes," Claire grinned. "A full beard. She said she wanted to be like her big brother."

At that, Mr. Storm walked over and picked up another photo—Lily around age six, sitting on the shoulders of a tall teenage boy with a soccer ball tucked under one arm. "That's Ethan," he said softly. "She followed him everywhere."

"Once, she snuck onto the soccer field mid-game," Claire added. "Ran straight to him, handed him a juice box, and yelled, 'Don't forget to hydrate, Ethan!'"

Lance laughed. "That sounds exactly like her."

"She adored him," Mr. Storm said, voice softening. "He taught her how to ride a bike. She crashed into a mailbox her first go. Got up, bleeding from both knees, and yelled, 'AGAIN!'"

Claire smiled. "She's always been a fighter. And a handful."

Just then, Lily came back into the room with a tray of brownies and sliced strawberries. She paused, narrowing her eyes at the guilty faces around her.

"What did I miss?"

"Only a conference about your glitter-glue escape plan and soccer field juice runs," Lance said, grinning.

Lily groaned, setting down the tray. "I cannot leave you people alone for two minutes."

"We're helping him get to know you," Mr. Storm said, patting Lance on the shoulder. "No secrets in this family."

Lily crossed her arms, trying not to smile. "Remind me to move farther next time."

"Too late," Aunt Claire said, reaching for a brownie. "He already knows the truth."

Lance picked up a slice of brownie and held it up like a toast. "To juice box assists, and the bravest glitter-glue adventurer I've ever met."

Lily rolled her eyes, but the way she smiled into her cup betrayed her happiness.

* * *

Life, slowly but surely, began to settle into a rhythm.

There were little dates tucked into the corners of their busy lives—coffees after checkups, walks through quiet streets where the leaves whispered stories overhead, shared meals that lingered late into the night with laughter between bites. Some days, he picked her up from her apartment with a thermos of ginger tea; other days, she met him at the hospital with a packed lunch she made herself, complete with cheesy notes written in Sharpie on the napkins.

At The Lily of Hope Oncology Centre, Lance's life remained demanding—patients, consults, meetings, early mornings, and later nights—but there was a subtle change. A lighter step. A glint in his eye that staff couldn't quite name. Nurses began exchanging knowing glances when Lily popped by or left notes at the front desk.

Meanwhile, Lily sat curled up in her writing nook more often than not, her fingers finally dancing again across the keyboard. After months of struggling to capture the right tone, The Garden Where Time Blooms found its heartbeat. It was gentle, mournful, and filled with quiet hope—exactly how she imagined it would feel. When she finally submitted the manuscript for editing and publishing, she felt both exhausted and fulfilled. She texted Lance a photo of the final page, captioned: She made it to the end. Again.

Six months passed in this tender blur.

Then came her follow-up appointment.

"Honestly, you're doing beautifully," Lance said as he reviewed her latest labs and scans. The Imatinib was working, exactly as they'd hoped.

Lily exhaled like she'd been holding her breath for months. "So... I don't have to worry about mutant cells plotting world domination in my spleen anymore?"

He smiled; eyes warm. "Not today."

She laughed and leaned back in her chair, stretching. "Nice. I might even celebrate by eating an actual croissant."

Before she left the room, several of the nurses who had cared for her during her early days stopped by to say hello. One of them, Nurse Ayesha, nudged another with her elbow.

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around Dr. Lance having a soft side," she whispered, not quietly enough.

Another chimed in, "I thought he was made of stone. Turns out, he's made of boyfriend material."

Lily nearly choked on her laugh. Lance rubbed the back of his neck, pretending to be absorbed in her discharge notes while the staff grinned like children caught eavesdropping.

As they stepped out of the office, Lily reached for his hand without hesitation. He didn't even blink—just intertwined their fingers and gave a gentle squeeze.

They walked down the hallway of The Lily of Hope Oncology Centre together, hand in hand. No more hiding. No more half-steps. Just the steady rhythm of two people learning to walk beside each other.

Later that week, as the last rays of a sleepy afternoon spilled through the windows of Lance's office, he glanced up from his desk and found Lily sitting cross-legged on the couch, flipping through a travel magazine she'd brought just to kill time. Her hair was up in a loose knot, glasses sliding down her nose, a half-finished iced latte sweating on the side table beside her.

"I've got something to ask you," he said, closing a file with a soft snap.

She peeked over the top of the magazine. "Hmm?"

"I've been invited to assist on a neurosurgery case in Italy," he said, his tone casual but eyes locked onto hers. "Florence, to be specific. It's a two-week collaboration, but the schedule's flexible. We'd have time to explore."

She sat up straighter. "Wait. Italy Italy?"

He nodded. "I thought, since your book's done and your scans are clear…" He hesitated, then smiled. "Maybe you'd like to come with me. Turn it into a little vacation?"

Lily's magazine slid off her lap.

"Are you serious?"

"Completely."

"Lance," she said, eyes wide with the kind of joy that couldn't be faked, "do you even understand how badly I've always wanted to go to Italy? I used to practice Italian phrases online before bed for fun. I mean, I forgot most of them, but still. Florence?"

"Florence," he confirmed, amused by her rising excitement.

"I get to eat real pasta. And drink espresso that isn't a disappointment. And maybe wear flowy dresses in vineyards while yelling bellissimo at everything?"

"That is a surprisingly accurate depiction of what I was hoping for," he said, chuckling.

She grinned and crossed the room to him, arms winding around his neck as she kissed his cheek. "I'm in. A thousand times yes."

"Good," he murmured. "I've already booked your ticket."

She pulled back, blinking. "You were that confident, huh?"

"No," he said, "just hopeful."

* * *

A Few Weeks Earlier

The Storm residence was filled with the comforting aroma of roasted garlic and lemon thyme chicken, courtesy of a recipe Claire insisted on making "only for serious occasions." She'd caught on quickly when Lance had asked for a private dinner with the family, wearing that look that said something big was on his mind.

Mr. Storm sat at the head of the dining table, his silver-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. Claire was already refilling wine glasses while trying to hide a smile. Lily, oblivious, had been told the dinner was about "catching up," and had conveniently picked up a last-minute bookstore event, leaving the trio alone.

Once plates were cleared and everyone was settled again with dessert and decaf, Lance cleared his throat and leaned forward slightly, hands clasped on the table.

"I'm grateful to both of you—for welcoming me into your lives, for trusting me with Lily's care, and for giving her the space to live, to write, and to heal. And I... I wanted to speak with you tonight because I'm planning to ask her to marry me."

The words dropped gently, but heavily, into the warm hum of the room.

Claire's breath hitched before her face broke into a teary smile. Mr. Storm stared for a second longer, then slowly set his fork down.

"I plan to propose during our trip to Italy," Lance continued. "It'll be a quiet moment—just the two of us. But before that, I wanted to speak with you both. Out of respect. Because Lily means the world to me. She always has, even when she didn't know it."

Mr. Storm took a long sip from his glass, then finally met Lance's eyes.

"You have my blessing," he said. "But you already had that the moment she started smiling again."

Claire reached across and squeezed Lance's hand. "We'll keep it quiet. But oh, Lance... she's going to say yes. She already glows when she talks about you."

"I just want her to be happy," he said softly.

"And she is," Claire replied, eyes shining. "But now—she gets to be even more."

A few days Before the Trip

The sky outside his parents' house was streaked with the soft gold of late afternoon, casting warm shadows across the veranda where his mother tended her potted herbs. His father was inside, finishing the crossword puzzle with his usual furrowed concentration. Lance had called ahead, asked if they could sit down for a talk—one of those talks.

They were waiting for him when he arrived.

His mother, ever intuitive, offered him tea before he could speak. "You've got that look," she said, smiling behind the rim of her mug. "The one you had when you told us you were going to be a doctor at ten."

His father arched a brow. "Or when he decided to start a hospital, like a lunatic."

Lance laughed softly, then drew in a breath. "I'm going to Italy next week for a case. A neurosurgery consult. But this time, I won't be going alone."

His mother sat up straighter, eyes narrowing with interest. His father slowly lowered his newspaper.

"I'm taking someone with me," Lance said. "Her name is Lily. She's a novelist. A patient I once treated... but now she's much more than that."

He paused, watching the way their expressions shifted, and then let the truth land with quiet gravity.

"I'm going to propose to her while we're there."

His mother's hand flew to her chest, while his father blinked twice, then broke into a grin.

"About damn time we heard about this mystery woman," his dad said. "You've been walking around like a man in love for months. We just figured you were being dramatic."

"You kept her hidden, Lance," his mother added, half-laughing. "What happened to bringing someone home to meet your very normal and nosy parents?"

"I wanted to make sure," he said gently. "That I could give her a life worth saying yes to. And... she's everything. She's the reason I started remembering who I wanted to be."

They looked at each other—his parents, married for thirty-five years and still speaking in glances—and smiled.

"Bring her home to us," his mother said, reaching for his hand. "Bring us the woman you love."

"I will," Lance said, smiling with a rare softness. "After Italy, she'll be Lily Storm... but not for much longer."

* * *

Present Day – Florence, Italy

The taxi weaved through cobbled streets and sun-drenched piazzas, the city of Florence humming around them with life—Vespas whirring past, shutters open to the afternoon breeze, and the scent of garlic, tomatoes, and fresh basil curling in from nearby trattorias.

Lily pressed her face against the window like a kid, eyes wide with awe. "It's like walking into a dream," she whispered.

Lance smiled, reaching over to squeeze her hand. "Just wait till you taste the gelato."

They arrived at their hotel—a charming, vine-draped place nestled near the Arno River. The room Lance had booked overlooked a narrow alley blooming with geraniums and street musicians playing soft jazz on a nearby corner. The staff greeted them with warmth, switching effortlessly between English and Italian, handing them keys and saying "Benvenuti a Firenze!" with cheerful sincerity.

Once they'd freshened up and dropped off their bags, Lance insisted on keeping things light for their first evening.

They strolled into the dusky streets, hand in hand, until they found a tucked-away Osteria with warm string lights and mismatched chairs. Over handmade pasta—Lily's tagliatelle al tartufo and Lance's pappardelle with wild boar ragù—they tried out the few Italian phrases Lily had been practicing.

"Posso avere un bacio?" Lily asked with a mischievous grin.

Lance leaned closer, brushing his lips to hers. "You didn't need to ask."

They split a slice of tiramisu and walked slowly back toward the hotel, stopping for gelato—Lily's was pistachio and raspberry, Lance's dark chocolate—and watched the river shimmer under the moonlight.

When they returned to their suite, Lily slipped out of her shoes and sighed, collapsing onto the plush bed. "This feels unreal."

Lance smiled as he removed his blazer, hanging it neatly. "Rest up, piccola. Tomorrow I've got the briefing with the neurosurgical team early in the morning."

She looked up, eyes bright but soft. "You'll do great. You always do."

He bent to kiss her forehead. "Sleep. I'll see you after rounds."

Lily curled under the linen sheets, heart still full from the day, already dreaming of museums, espressos, and moonlit balconies—but unaware of the ring Lance had hidden deep in the lining of his suitcase.