A Place to Stay

"Where'd you like to go? I've got somewhere in mind if that suits you, my queen,"

Philip said softly, his voice velvet against the hum of the evening as he slid the keys into the ignition.

Hazel didn't meet his gaze. She watched the veins that coursed through his hand as her fingers traced the leopard-print dashboard absently, as if it might unlock something deeper within her.

"Babe, let's just… stay here," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

He turned the key back, engine dying with a reluctant sigh.

"Fine, Sweet," he replied, using the name he'd given her long ago, one that somehow always made her feel seen.

But the air thickened with unsaid words. The silence between them was heavy—pregnant with grief and the weight of everything she hadn't been able to say.

Philip sat back, letting out a breath that seemed to drain something from him. His jaw tensed, then softened.

"Look, Sweet… I know it's hard. I mean—how could it not be? Losing a man like that... It's not something you just get over."

His voice softened further, trying to string itself around her aching heart. "But it's happened…"

His words grew faint to Hazel's ears. She wasn't really there anymore—not fully. Her mind had drifted to another time, another space where her father was alive—smiling, proud, full of life. He had adored Philip, had always said, "That boy is your anchor, Hazel. He's got heart."

And now… he wouldn't be at their wedding. Wouldn't meet his grandchildren. Wouldn't dance with her one last time. She remembered how he was so full of life and optimistic. Now, all that was gone.

A tear, then another. They slipped down familiar trails on her cheeks, warm against the evening cool.

Philip turned the radio down, the quiet jazz melody fading into silence. He watched her in quiet agony, not wanting to rush her grief but aching to hold her heart in his hands.

Hazel hid her face in her palms, her sobs muffled but unmistakable. The pain was leaking from her again, this time unchecked, unrestrained. Her body trembled faintly, the weight of mourning too much for one soul to carry.

Philip reached over slowly and held her hand—not with urgency, but with understanding. She didn't flinch. She let him. That, in itself, meant everything.

After a while, she leaned her head back against the seat, eyes gazing up at the roof. A quiet sigh escaped her lips, not quite relief, not quite despair.

Just… a moment of pause.

"You know," he said gently, brushing a knuckle across her damp cheek, "tears aren't supposed to live in the eyes of the most beautiful girl in the world."

Hazel turned to him. Despite herself, her lips curved ever so slightly.

"You always say that," she murmured, voice cracking like ice underfoot with a hint of broken shyness.

"That's because it's always true," he replied, his gaze locked to hers with a reverence that made her feel holy, whole—even if just for a second.

His eyes didn't waver. They were deep pools of warmth and safety, something magnetic pulling her in. Her heart thudded once, then again. Faster. Louder.

She tried to look away, but there was something in his stare—something tender yet consuming. It frightened her. It healed her. It made her feel like she wasn't alone.

The way he looked at her made it impossible to pretend she didn't crave closeness—human, sacred, simple closeness. Not just his body, but his soul. She wanted to lean on his chest and just talk about her whole life endlessly and she didn't mind doing that since he was the only one who cared.

When she finally looked back at him, time seemed to shudder and pause.

Philip leaned in slowly, stopping just short of her lips, letting the electricity build until it hummed between them.

"I can't wait to make you mine," he whispered.

Then, he kissed her.

Not with urgency or hunger. But with reverence. Like he was writing a poem on her lips, syllable by syllable. His mouth moved with hers, slow and tender, tongue gliding gently against hers as though savoring the taste of everything they had survived together. She moved her lips against his, passionately and delicately, between each layer.

Hazel melted into the seat, hands gently curling into the sleeves of his shirt. Her grief wasn't gone, but it was quieter now—wrapped in the warmth of something beautiful.

And then, just as suddenly, he pulled away.

She blinked, surprised, breathless.

Philip grinned. That soft, cheeky grin she'd always fallen for.

"And I got you something," he said, reaching into the back seat.

He returned with a delicately wrapped box and a bouquet of pale tulips—the very same kind her father used to bring home every spring. Hazel's breath hitched. She loved him more.

Opening the box, she found a Vietnamese mooncake—etched with ornate symbols and golden in its glaze.

"Because you said you always wanted to try one," he said. "And I know tulips remind you of home. I thought… maybe this could be a piece of it."

Hazel stared at the offering, speechless. Then back at him. Her lips trembled, and she bit down on the wave that was threatening to swallow her whole again.

"Philip…" she breathed.

He reached for her hand again.

"You don't have to say anything, Sweet. Just… feel whatever you need to feel. I'll be here."

And for the first time in a long time, Hazel believed it. Love, something she couldn't understand yet it was the most soothing thing she ever knew, thanks to Philip.