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“I guess I should be grateful that you consider it an amazing night.” I shrug.

“Delilah,” he says with a heavy tone. He leans forward and takes the bowl of dessert out of my hands. I’ve long since lost my interest in the cake anyway. He places the bowl next to his and then leans over, tucking the stray strands of hair behind my ear before withdrawing his hand again. “That night was one of the best of my life.”

“I doubt that,” I scoff.

“Then you underestimate how beautiful that night was, and just how perfect it was.”

“Perfect” feels like it could be an overstatement, but like everything with him, I thought that night was special until he left and it tainted all my memories. It’s impossible to look back at something that felt so perfect—if fragile—and see it clearly when viewing it through teary eyes.

“I guess I find it difficult to see anything how I thought it was,” I explain.

He sighs again. “I really did a number on you, didn’t I?”

“Maybe.”

“I swear, I would give anything to take on every second of pain you felt in your life. All of it, Delilah, but especially the pain I caused.”

“Why did you quit teaching?” I blurt out. “Did you worry about the potential repercussions? Did you think I might tell somebody what happened?”

“Did you ever consider telling?” he retorts without answering my question.

I shake my head. “No. What happened was between us, and I never thought it was sinister.”

I wonder if he ever thought that, if he looked back at our relationship and thought about the ethics and the morality of it all. People can twist and cut the facts to suit whatever narrative they want. It’s easy to remove pertinent information about who we were to boil it down to two simple, undeniable facts.

I was his student.

And he was my teacher.

There are people who will never see that as right. I’m sure if other adults had known that he was letting me sleep at his house, or if they were aware what happened after his rotation and after I finished my studies, they would be vocal about the repercussions and hysterically scream about the legalities.

It doesn’t matter how I believe the facts should be presented; there have still been times that I wondered if his lack of career in teaching was down to good fortune in landing an acting role or down to fear that I could tell people what happened, twist the facts, and paint him in a far more sinister light than would be true.

“I didn’t quit teaching because of us. I’ll admit, I never saw you coming, but my decision to change careers wasn’t because of you. Did I sometimes question if I was in the wrong about the choices I made? Sure. Of course I did. But I’d do it a million times over, because all those times I stepped over the lines and broke the rules, it kept you safe.”

He sounds so sincere, and I can’t help but find my heart softening a little. He’s right. That last year at school was horrendous, but only because of what I was dealing with at home. His actions during the term he taught there gave me the antidote, gave me a soft cushion to land on.

Not only does he sound sincere, but he looks so earnest. His blue eyes seem to bore into me, almost like he can see through to my very soul. It’s always been like that with him.

“I said thank you, right?” I murmur. My breath hitches as I speak, and I’m sure he hears it, though he doesn’t react the way I thought he might.

Instead of teasing or smirking, he reaches for my hand. He strokes his thumb over the top, causing little shivers down my spine.

“I told you, you never had to thank me for anything.”

“Just to be clear, I’m only thanking you for all the times you rescued me. For the times you gave me a safe space to sleep. For the times you made sure I was fed. Not for breaking my heart,” I clarify.

It cuts through a little of the tension that seems to run through my body, and I’m grateful. Under his intense gaze, I’m in danger of letting down my defences. I repeat Felix’s name in my head like a mantra, a reminder that he’d be disappointed if I do something stupid. More than disappointed. He’ll be a judgemental asshole if I don’t keep my self-control.

I’m used to Felix being a judgemental asshole, and I know it’s always temporary. He always forgives me, no matter the transgression.

“I wish—”

“Wishes are for little children who still believe in magic and Santa Claus, Joseph,” I cut him off. Wishing things were different, wishing he didn’t break my heart, wishing he didn’t walk away—it amounts to nothing. It’ll only ever be a wish. There are things in life that can’t be taken back, can’t be erased.

They can only be accepted. Forgiven and moved on from. Something that is learnt to be lived with.

He looks slightly hurt and crestfallen. The atmosphere feels thick and heavy, but that isn’t anything unusual between us. I’m sure there have been countless times where the air has felt like this around us, like we’re in our own personal bubble. One that always seem to have our own climate, secret language, and set of rules compared to the rest of the world.