Page 82 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Eighty-Two

Between Ivy and Stone

Nights passed, and she still wasn’t sure what it was becoming.

Maybe it was love. Maybe it was something else entirely.

But whatever it was, it had taken root.

Maybe it was the night he told her about the haunted gnome.

Or the night he made her laugh so hard she had to cover her mouth with both hands, afraid someone inside might hear.

But somewhere—between stories and silences, between ivy and stone—he became a part of her night.

A gentle part.

Not just about escape.

Not even hope.

Just something that didn’t hurt.

And sometimes, when the nights were quietest and her chest ached the most, she caught herself wondering…

Did he feel it too?

He started opening up more.

Not in a dramatic way—just bits and pieces, shared slowly over time.

He told her about Miami.

About the big house he bought too early—thinking marriage and kids would follow .

“But they never did,” he said one night. “Maybe I’ve worked too much—built something for nothing. I always believed in fate. That when the time is right, the perfect person would come along.”

Lyric asked quietly, heart pounding even though she tried to sound casual.

“What’s she like? Your perfect person? And what kind of dreams do you have… for a family?”

He let out a quiet breath, and for a second, she thought he might not answer.

Then, gently—

“Well… no one’s ever really asked me that before.”

“A wife with a soft laugh. Kind eyes. Christmas mornings with wrapping paper everywhere and cinnamon rolls burning in the oven. Laughter echoing down halls too big to be empty. I own a house on the ocean. I want beach days and barbecues—kids building sandcastles in the sand. But mostly, I want a family filled with love. So much love.”

“I’d give it all up,” he added. “The work, the house—everything. It means nothing without someone to share it with. I never had that growing up…”

He trailed off.

Lyric pressed her hands against the stone wall.

She didn’t mean to.

She just needed to feel something.

She didn’t talk much.

Not about herself.

But one night, when the moon was low and the garden smelled like cold roses, he asked:

“Do you ever think about what you want? What your life would look like—if things were different?”

She didn’t answer right away.

She didn’t even breathe.

But then, softly—almost like a secret:

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Then, barely louder:

“My name is Lyric.”

The silence that followed felt holy.

He didn’t fill it too quickly .

Just let it settle between them like something sacred.

Then: “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Lyric.”

The way he said it made her eyes sting.

“I want to see you,” he said that night. “I mean—really see you.

Can I bring a ladder? Just peek over. No pressure. I just… I can't stop thinking about you.

It would be nice to put a face to the voice.”

Her heart tightened.

She wanted to say yes.

God, she wanted to say yes.

She wanted to see him too.

Did he look like she had imagined?

But her hand gripped the bench tighter.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Not yet.”

He didn’t ask why.

Didn’t push.

Just said:

“Okay. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

But she knew he wouldn’t be here forever.

His voice might vanish like all good things did—too soon, too quietly.

---

After returning to the house, she crept down the hall and slipped into Noah’s room one last time.

She needed to see him—needed the grounding comfort of him, the way only he could quiet the storm inside her.

Holding his tiny foot in her hand while he slept, she whispered:

“I think he’d help us. I really do.”

But the words didn’t settle anything.

Because this wasn’t about hope or want, or the ache she couldn’t name.

This was about Noah. It had always been about Noah.

And whatever came next—whatever risks she took—

he was the only thing that mattered.