Chapter Seventy-Eight: The Familiar Warmth of What Still Remains
The sea whispered in the distance.
Salt air drifted through open glass doors as Chloe stepped inside Azure Haven, her footsteps soundless against the cool floors.
The villa looked exactly as she remembered—timeless, soft-edged, alive with everything they once left behind.
On the far end, the infinity pool shimmered, blue melting into ocean. The jacuzzi just beside it steamed gently under the sky's growing indigo glow.
And the balcony doors were already wide open.
Like the house knew she'd be back.
Like it had waited.
She glanced outside—and there they were.
The tulips.
Clusters of blue, swaying lightly in the breeze, tucked in the garden Kian had built for her years ago. Her favorite. Still cared for. Still blooming.
Chloe didn't speak.
She couldn't.
Not with everything stirring in her chest at once.
She turned slightly, gaze tracing the corners of the living room, the curve of the stairwell, the way the sea touched everything in sight.
Each space pulsed with memory—not haunted, but kept.
Behind her, Kian set the bag down and walked toward the kitchen.
"Wine or red?" he asked over his shoulder, voice easy.
"Red,"
she replied, almost absentmindedly.
He poured two glasses and carried them to the patio table where the steaks waited—seared to perfection, brushed lightly with garlic butter. He always cooked for her when he wanted to say something without saying it.
They ate quietly at first. Not silent—just comfortable. The kind of quiet that comes from being near something familiar.
When dinner faded into a soft lull and only the moon remained in full conversation with the water, Chloe stood and stepped barefoot out to the poolside.
The breeze caught her hair.
The sky was open.
And there was the moon—bold, radiant, and watching.
Kian followed.
He leaned against the balcony rail while she wandered closer to the garden edge, fingers lightly brushing a tulip's petals.
"You kept them alive," she murmured.
Kian's voice came from behind her, low and fond. "They were never meant to die."
She turned, eyes soft, unreadable.
He smiled faintly and nodded toward the ocean. "You still love the beach, don't you?"
She nodded.
"But you're still not a swimmer," he teased, a little warmth in his tone.
"Nope. Still not," she said, almost proud.
He tilted his head. "What was it you told me back then?"
She smirked. "I don't need to learn. You'd always be there to save me."
His gaze held hers for a moment—longer than it should have.
The waves crashed gently below.
And neither of them spoke again.
Not right away.
Because sometimes—peace is a memory, and sometimes, it's the moment right in front of you.