"Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see." - Mark Twain

Veronica

The air in the Evergreen Assisted Living Center was warm and inviting, a far cry from the sterile, impersonal atmosphere of some facilities. Thanks to the generous donations I'd helped raise, and supplemented with my own personal funds, Evergreen had undergone a remarkable transformation. The faded floral wallpaper had been replaced with calming shades of lavender and sage, and vibrant artwork adorned the walls. The once-drab common areas now boasted comfortable seating and lush potted plants, creating a cheerful and welcoming environment. It was Tuesday afternoon, a few days after… the morning after. The memory of waking up in Saint's arms still sent a flutter through my chest, a mixture of warmth and something akin to trepidation. We hadn't spoken of it since, both of us seemingly content to let the unspoken hang in the air between us, a fragile, unspoken truth.

I sat in a plush armchair in the sun-drenched library, a book of poetry resting in my lap. Before me, a small group of elderly men and women sat in rapt attention, their eyes fixed on me, their faces etched with the lines of time and experience. I read aloud, my voice soft and soothing, weaving tales of love, loss, and the beauty of the natural world. This wasn't a photo op, a carefully crafted moment for the press. This was something I did for myself, a way to connect with the past, a way to honor the memory of my grandmother, who had instilled in me a deep respect for the wisdom and stories of the elderly. Being here, surrounded by these men and women, in this warm and vibrant space, it felt like I was close to her again.

I paused, glancing up from the book. Mrs. Peterson, her eyes twinkling, reached out and patted my hand. "You have a lovely voice, dear," she said, her voice raspy but kind. "Just like my Martha used to."

I smiled, my heart warming at the comparison. "Thank you, Mrs. Peterson," I said. "That's very kind of you."

I was about to resume reading when I noticed a figure standing in the doorway of the library. Saint. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his usually stern expression softened as he watched me and the residents. He looked out of place in the bright, cheerful room, a stark contrast in his tailored suit and serious demeanor. Yet, he didn't look uncomfortable. He simply… watched. There was an unreadable expression on his face, a flicker of something I couldn't quite decipher. It was a look I hadn't seen before, a glimpse behind the mask of the stoic protector. I wondered what he was thinking. He hadn't said he was coming. In fact, I hadn't seen him much at all in the past few days. He'd been… distant. Not unkind, but definitely preoccupied. I’d assumed it was work, something to do with the incident at the gala, but I hadn’t pressed. We both seemed to be navigating some unspoken territory, a delicate dance of unspoken feelings and uncertain boundaries. He pushed himself off the doorframe and walked towards us, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. "Veronica," he said, his voice low and warm, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I hope I'm not interrupting." He glanced at the residents, his expression softening further. "Please, continue." He pulled up a chair and sat quietly, his eyes fixed on me as I resumed reading. The women, and the few men present, seemed unfazed by his presence, some even offering shy smiles. They were used to visitors, and Saint, despite his imposing figure, exuded an air of quiet respect that put them at ease. As I read, I couldn't help but steal glances at him. He seemed genuinely interested in the poetry, his brow furrowed slightly as he listened intently. It was a side of him I rarely saw, a glimpse of the man beneath the armor. When I finished the poem, a hush fell over the room. Mrs. Peterson, ever the first to speak, patted my hand again. "Beautiful, dear," she said. "Just beautiful." The other residents murmured their agreement, their faces filled with contentment. I smiled, feeling a warmth spread through me. "Thank you," I said. "It was my grandmother's favorite." Saint cleared his throat. "It was… moving," he said, his gaze lingering on mine. "Thank you for sharing it." He stood up, offering his hand to me. "Shall we?" he asked, his voice a silent question. I took his hand, feeling a jolt of electricity pass between us. As we walked out of the library, he tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, a gesture both protective and intimate. "I wanted to see you," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the soft murmur of the residents. "And… thank you. For what you do here. It's… admirable." I looked up at him, surprised by his words. "It's nothing," I said. "It's… something I need to do." He stopped walking, turning to face me. "It's not nothing, Veronica," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "It's… important. You're important." His words hung in the air between us, charged with unspoken meaning. "I was thinking," he continued, a softer look in his eyes, "perhaps we could grab some lunch? There's a little bistro just down the street that I've been meaning to try." A genuine smile spread across my face. "I'd like that very much," I said. "Let me just say goodbye to everyone." I quickly made the rounds, exchanging hugs and warm wishes with the residents, promising to visit again soon. When I returned to Saint, he was waiting patiently by the entrance, his presence a comforting anchor in the midst of the quiet bustle of the assisted living center. As we stepped out into the warm afternoon sun, I couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation. Lunch with Saint. It was a simple thing, yet it felt significant, a small step forward in the uncharted territory of our relationship.

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