ARIA
By the time I pulled into our little driveway, the sun was still bright and cruelly cheerful, the kind of day that didn't match the storm brewing inside my head.
The drive home had been one long argument with myself replaying every single moment with Dalton Gray, trying and failing to understand why a man so cold could make my pulse sprint like that. I could still hear his voice, that arrogant, low command: "Look at me when you're talking."
Ugh. If he weren't so infuriatingly gorgeous, I'd probably hate him in peace.
I grabbed my bag and stepped out of my car, shaking my head as if that could scatter him from my thoughts. But the moment I saw Mrs. Evans walking out of our front door, her hands clutched around her little purse, the irritation drained from me completely.
She lived next door, but she'd become part of the family a long time ago. She'd taken care of my dad when I worked double shifts, making sure he ate, kept warm, and occasionally smiled.
"Mrs. Evans?" I called, locking the car.
She turned, and that warm, maternal face usually all smiles and soft lines looked tired. "Oh, Aria, you're home early, dear."
"Early?" I laughed a little, even though my throat was tight. "It's after three. That's practically midnight in barista time."
She chuckled weakly. "Yes, I suppose it is. I just came by to check on John. He's been very quiet today. Slept most of the afternoon."
Something cold and sharp slipped into my stomach. "Quiet how?"
She hesitated. "Just… not himself. He's weak, sweetheart. You should go see him."
My heart squeezed. "I will. Thank you for checking in, really."
She nodded, squeezing my arm. "You're a good girl, Aria. Don't forget to eat something, alright?"
"I'll try," I promised, though we both knew I wouldn't.
When she left, I pushed open the front door quietly, the familiar creak echoing through the small house. The smell of peppermint tea and antiseptic hung in the air.
The first thing I saw was his empty mug on the coffee table cold, forgotten. Then, the thin blanket he kept draped over his legs, tossed halfway to the floor.
"Dad?" I called softly.
"In here," came a faint voice from his bedroom.
Relief and dread hit me in equal measure.
He looked smaller every day. Pale skin, sharp cheekbones, a weariness that settled into every corner of his face. But the moment he saw me, that tired smile bloomed my favorite one, the one that still made him look like the dad I grew up with.
"There's my girl," he said. His voice was rough, but warm. "How was work? Any exciting coffee adventures today?"
I sat at the edge of his bed, smiling despite myself. "Exciting isn't the word. More like… emotionally scarring."
"Oh?" His brows rose. "That sounds interesting."
"There's this customer," I started, shaking my head. "This impossibly arrogant guy who walks around like he owns the entire planet. You should see how people scramble when he walks in even Mel goes all robot mode."
Dad chuckled, coughing softly after. "Sounds like someone you'd get along with.Wait the same person you always complain about?"
I rolled my eyes. " Yes we're basically mortal enemies. He's the kind of man who says 'thank you' like it's an insult. But… he's.."
"Handsome?" Dad guessed with a mischievous twinkle.
I froze, then groaned. "Oh my God, how did you.."
He grinned. "I raised you, remember? I know that look. You've got that 'I hate him, but I think about him anyway' face."
I covered my face with my hands. "This is humiliating. He's the last person on earth I'd ever like, trust me."
"Uh-huh."
"Dad," I whined, laughing through my embarrassment. "He's insufferable. Rich, rude, impossible to please. The kind of guy who probably yells at flowers for blooming too slowly."
He laughed again, wheezing a little this time. I immediately reached for his water glass. "Easy, you're going to make yourself worse."
"I'm fine, sweetheart," he said after taking a sip. "It feels good to laugh."
But even as he said it, I could see the truth. His hands trembled when he set the glass down, and his skin looked almost translucent.
I busied myself by fluffing his pillows, adjusting the blanket, doing anything to feel useful. "Did you eat something?"
He shrugged. "A few spoonfuls. Mrs. Evans made soup. Tasted like cardboard, but I didn't have the heart to tell her."
I smirked. "You're terrible."
"She loves me," he said, smiling faintly.
We fell quiet for a while. The only sounds were the soft ticking of the wall clock and his uneven breathing. I wanted to fill the silence, but every word felt like it might break me.
"Dad…" I finally whispered. "Do you ever think about about when things were better?"
He looked at me with gentle eyes. "Every day. But I don't stay there too long. The past has a way of trapping you."
"I just…" I swallowed hard. "I wish I could do more. For you."
"You already have," he said. "You left school for me. You work two jobs. You've been my strength when I've had none left. You've done more than I deserve."
"Don't say that," I whispered fiercely. "You're my dad. You've always been there. I should've been the one.."
"Aria," he interrupted softly. "Stop. Guilt doesn't suit you."
My throat tightened. "It's all I feel lately."
He reached out his frail hand, brushing his thumb over mine. "One day, you'll understand that love isn't about repayment. You don't owe me anything. All I ever wanted was to see you happy again."
I smiled weakly. "That's a tall order. I work at a coffee shop, Dad. Happiness is not part of the uniform."
He chuckled. "You joke, but you're my sunshine, kiddo. You always have been."
For a while, we just sat like that his hand in mine, the golden afternoon light spilling across the bedspread.
After some time, he sighed, his eyelids fluttering. "You know what I wish for you?"
"What?"
"That one day, someone will love you the way you love others. That they'll take care of you, fight for you, remind you to rest. Because all your life, you've carried people. Someone should carry you for a change."
Tears stung my eyes. "You talk like I'm never going to find anyone."
"Oh, you will," he said softly, smiling. "You're too stubborn not to."
I laughed through my tears. "Well, he better be patient."
"He'll need to be brave," Dad said with a wink. "You've got your mother's fire."
We both laughed the kind of fragile laughter that comes from love and pain tangled together.
Later, I helped him sit up so he could eat a little soup, fed him small spoonfuls until his hands stopped shaking. He talked about the neighbors, about Mrs. Evans' cat that still hated everyone but him, about how the hydrangeas outside were finally blooming.
And then, quietly, he said, "I'm proud of you, Aria."
My throat closed up instantly. "Don't.."
"No, listen to me," he insisted gently. "You've turned a life full of loss into something beautiful. You've kept us afloat. You've made this house a home again. No matter what happens next… I want you to remember that."
I leaned my head against his shoulder, blinking away tears. "I love you, Dad."
"I love you too, my best girl," he murmured, kissing my hair.
By the time the evening light turned amber, he'd drifted to sleep again, his breathing shallow but steady.
I sat there watching him, listening to the faint rhythm of his heart, and for once, I didn't move. I just stayed memorizing every line on his face, every breath, every fragile second I still had with him.
Because deep down, I knew time was running out.
And I wasn't ready to let go. Not yet.
Call it instincts but when I woke up in the middle of the night I went straight to his room to check on him.
"Dad?"
No answer.
His chest was rising too fast, his eyes half-open, unfocused. Panic exploded in my chest.
"Dad!" I grabbed his hand. "Hey, stay with me, okay? I'm calling for help."
My fingers fumbled for my phone. I called Mrs. Evans first she was there in seconds, barefoot, already dialing the ambulance.
The next few minutes blurred sirens, voices, the hiss of oxygen tanks, hands moving quickly but gently. Someone asked questions I couldn't answer. I rode in the ambulance, clutching his hand, whispering over and over, "You're okay. You're okay. Please, be okay."
At the hospital, they wheeled him into a room, hooked up machines that beeped like nervous hearts. A doctor spoke softly, too softly "We'll do everything we can… he's very weak… prepare yourself, Miss Davis."
Hours passed in a fog of fluorescent lights and fear. I sat beside his bed, holding his hand, listening to the slow rhythm of his breath.
When he stirred, his voice was little more than a whisper. "Don't cry, honey."
I wiped my face quickly. "I'm not."
"You always were a terrible liar," he murmured, smiling faintly. "You've been so brave through all this. But you have to promise me something."
"Anything."
"Don't stop living when I go. Promise me you'll keep fighting, keep laughing. You'll find your own life again."
My throat closed. "I promise," I said, the words breaking apart halfway through.
He smiled, his eyes closing again. "Good girl."
I sat there long after he fell asleep, my hand in his, the machines humming quietly around us.
And somewhere deep down, I knew this was the beginning of goodbye.