The news of Cheryl’s studio reached Louis like a discordant chime in the quiet hum of his own creative space. A frantic call from one of the observatory technicians, a hushed mention of “total destruction” and “perfume system ruined.” 

He hadn’t waited for details, the words themselves a cold hand squeezing his chest. He’d driven through the night, the city lights blurring into streaks of anxious energy, a knot tightening in his stomach with every mile.

He found the studio door ajar, a faint, acrid scent of scorched electronics and spilled fragrance hanging in the air, a desecration of Cheryl’s usually pristine, aromatic sanctuary. The scene inside was worse than he’d imagined. 

Vials shattered, their precious contents bleeding into the floorboards. Delicate instruments twisted into grotesque shapes. And in the center of it all, amidst the wreckage, was Cheryl.

Her shoulders were shaking, her face buried against Dennis’s chest. Louis froze in the doorway, a shadow among the shadows, unseen. 

Dennis, ever the steady anchor, held her with a quiet strength that radiated competence and unwavering support. His hand stroked her hair, a gesture of profound tenderness that Louis felt like a physical blow.

He watched, a silent observer, as Dennis murmured words Louis couldn’t quite discern, but the tone was unmistakable – soothing, protective, utterly devoted. Louis’s gaze flickered from the wreckage to Cheryl’s tear-streaked face, then to Dennis’s resolute profile. 

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He should have been here. 

He should have been the one offering that comfort, that unwavering presence. But he hadn’t been. He’d been distant, wrapped in his own anxieties, his own past.

Then, Dennis’s voice, low but clear in the devastated silence, reached Louis’s ears. “Cheryl,” he began, his voice thick with emotion, “this isn’t just about the project. It’s… it’s about you. You deserve someone who sees your brilliance, who protects your light. Someone who will always be here, no matter what.” 

He paused, and Louis felt the air crackle with unspoken intensity. “I love you, Cheryl. I have for a long time. Let me be that steady star for you. Let me cherish you.”

The words struck Louis with the force of a physical blow, echoing the very fears he’d tried to suppress. 

Steady star. Cherish you. 

He was a supernova, brilliant and destructive, prone to implosion. He was the one who retreated, who guarded, who couldn’t offer that simple, uncomplicated steadiness. He was the one who had failed to protect his own light, let alone someone else’s.

A cold dread seeped into his bones, a familiar chill that spoke of inadequacy and impending loss. He saw Dennis, solid and reliable, a haven in the storm. 

He saw himself, a fractured artist, still haunted by the ghosts of a past betrayal, a man whose love felt like a dangerous, unpredictable force. How could he compete with that?

How could he offer Cheryl anything but more uncertainty, more pain?

He backed away, silently, a phantom retreating from a scene he didn’t belong in. The studio door creaked shut behind him, a whisper of his own failure. 

He didn’t go far, just to a secluded alcove near the observatory’s main entrance, a place where the vastness of the cosmos felt less intimidating than the raw, human emotion he’d just witnessed. He leaned against the cool stone, his mind a maelstrom of self-recrimination and fear.

His past trauma, the betrayal by Joyce, surged to the forefront of his mind. He remembered the grand vision they’d shared, the promises, the intertwined lives. 

He remembered the crushing weight of her deceit, the way she’d twisted his reality, making him doubt his own sanity, his own talent. He’d built walls so high after that, brick by painful brick, to protect himself from ever feeling that exposed, that vulnerable again.

And now, Cheryl. She had, against all odds, begun to chip away at those walls. 

Her scents, her insight, her unwavering belief in his art, had drawn him out of his self-imposed exile. He’d felt a connection with her, a profound understanding that transcended words, a spark of something he hadn’t dared to dream of again. 

He’d even, foolishly, begun to hope.

But hope was a dangerous thing. It made you vulnerable. 

It made you believe in a future that could be snatched away, just like his “Cosmic Symphony” had been. Dennis’s confession, his offer of a “steady” future, was a stark reminder of what Louis couldn’t be. 

He was a man of shadows and intensity, not calm and unwavering light. And in the face of such devastation, such a clear need for protection, he had been absent, emotionally distant.