Song: Romantic Academia playlist by Ivoryyy

Ambrose hunched over his phone. He furiously typed his new idea into the notes app before he lost the sudden burst of inspiration.

Fixing her crown of a thousand jewels, Princess Yvaine rose and made her way across the room. Everyone watched with bated breath. The silence was as loud as it was empty when she stopped before the young man chained to the wall.

Eyes of vacant black glared up at Princess Yvaine. Fallen from grace with his crown stolen and clothes tattered. The man kneeling before her merely snarled when he met her gleeful gaze.

"Well?" Princess Yvaine prodded him with her heeled shoes. "Have you an answer to my proposition?"

"It looks like you're about to start jacking off with the way you're bent over."

Ambrose snorted, deleting his next few lines and ignoring Betty's teasing.

The raven haired beauty scoffed, lines of disbelief creasing his ebony skin. He couldn't believe the audacity of the woman with golden straw for hair and sapphires for eyes. Her lips were still red with the blood of his fallen kin and she had the nerve to ask such a thing?!

"No," Prince Aster growled. "I would rather die by a thousand painful cuts than be married to a tyrant like you."

"Breaks over, Ambrose!"

Ambrose clucked his tongue, jumping to his feet and followed Betty out of the break room. He pushed his glasses up with his arm and typed out the last few lines he could muster under such circumstances.

Princess Yvaine's twisted smile fell. She harshly gripped Prince Aster's dark curls and tugged. "That," she whispered, "can be arranged."

Pleased with the ending, Ambrose pocketed his phone. Picking up a discarded silver tray, he loaded it with clean glasses and a new bottle of wine. He walked through the dining hall and smiled politely at the older patrons of the wine club.

It was the day before Christmas Eve with him and Betty working overtime. Ambrose discreetly checked his watch, noting that it was almost eight. Which meant that Cameron would be in bed by now after Jill read and tucked him in.

The venue wasn't as packed as he thought it would be with roughly thirty people flitting about. He and the other servers offered different options of wine for them to taste. They thanked him, took the samples, smelled it, sipped it, then observed the color.

Every. Single. Time.

It was a tedious process that, at first, left him bored out of his mind. But then the tipping kicked in. It wasn't anything extreme but it was appreciated.

Ambrose found it ironic that now, when his eyes scanned the room, he could tell that everyone came from old money.

The clothes. The posture. The language. Everything screamed affluence but not in a conceited way.

Money talked but wealth whispered.

Ambrose made the round back to the bar for a fresh batch of servings. His heart leaped into his throat when he turned and found an elderly man standing beside him.

"Shit." Ambrose grabbed the edge of the tray before it toppled over. "Sorry," he said with a half smile, "I didn't see you there."

The old man hummed, distorted gaze flicking towards the tray then over his shoulder.

Ambrose paused, sensing something was amiss. "Are you ok?"

The old man glanced at Ambrose with the palest blue eyes he'd even seen in his life. Crows feet and wrinkles creased his fair face.

"I—" The old man paused, fingers fumbling clumsily as he toyed with the buttons on his tweed suit. "Who are you?"

"Ambrose." He took in the older man's antsy appearance, having an inkling regarding what was happening. "What's your name?"

A myriad of nerves danced across the old man's face. He looked distraught when his mouth opened and closed. A spell of silence passed between them before Ambrose placed his tray down.

"Can you tell me who you came here with?" he asked, leaning down so he could meet his eyes. When the older man shook his head Ambrose pressed his lips into a thin line. There was a golden band on his ring finger and he looked well put together. So someone definitely brought him here before he must've wandered off. "What's the last thing you remember?"

The old man's eyes lit up with glee. "Driving my car! Aston Martin DB5. Silver. She's a real beauty."

Ambrose's brows skyrocketed as he helped the man onto a barstool. "You own an Aston Martin DB5?" He whistled slowly, never having been more concerned and floored in his entire life. "Only a thousand were ever made, right?"

"Ah," the old man chuckled, holding up a finger, "close. 1,100. It's a rare car. Very sought-after and hard to come by."

"I bet." Ambrose's gaze scanned the crowd. "Last I heard someone sold their 1964 for almost 1.5 million dollars." Ambrose caught Betty's eye and jutted his chin at the old man as discreetly as he could. "When was yours made?"

"1963!"

"Still got all the original parts?"

The old man's chest puffed up with pride. "Damn straight!"

Ambrose let out a breathy laugh, watching as Betty walked towards them with long strides. Her confidant gait wavered when she noticed the man sitting beside Ambrose. A sobering expression overcame her pixie-like face.

"Hi!" Betty took her time sitting next to the old man, smiling kindly. "Are you lost, Mr. Carmichael?"

Ambrose's breath caught in his throat. Was he cursed to encounter every Carmichael in existence now that he was attached to Lilah?

"Hm? No, no." Mr. Carmichael waved her off with a carefree gesture. "We were just talking about cobbled streets."

Ambrose made a face but held his tongue. Alzheimer's or dementia. It was one of the two for sure.

"Cobbled streets?" Betty echoed. "You certainly don't see much of that around here."

Mr. Carmichael shook his head, clasping his hands together. "No. There was a place I went to once and there were antique bookstores. Beautiful. Lots of prestigious texts to read. The coffee shops felt like home and people wore silk shirts." Mr. Carmichael stared at his hands with a blank stare before looking at Betty with a touch of light in his eyes. "And there was a cathedral! Gothic. Opulent. Truly a sight to see."

"Sounds like Florence," Ambrose said absentmindedly.

"I think it was!" Mr. Carmichael whirled around with a broad smile on his aged face. "Have you been there?"

"I was born there," Ambrose replied. "Stayed there for a few years before I moved to America with my mom. Last time I went home I was seventeen."

Summers and holidays spent with his family in Italy flooded his mind. The heat was the first thing he always remembered. Then his nonna and her cooking touched his tongue. Followed by the squawking and laughing of his neverending family members.

Things were much different back then.

"Stay with him," Betty mouthed. She picked up her tray and scurried away.

"Do you read?" Mr. Carmichael suddenly asked.

Ambrose nodded, giving his full attention. "I do."

"What do you read?"

"Mm. Anything but science fiction."

Mr. Carmichael laughed at the expression Ambrose pulled. It sounded weak and brittle. He had to touch his chest to settle himself before speaking.

"Not a fan of science?"

"It bores me," Ambrose replied bluntly. "I prefer fantasy. Historical fiction... romance every now and then."

"A man who admits to reading romance. Now that's ballsy."

Ambrose leaned against the mahogany surface with a small smirk. "My dad used to say that the people who shit on romance the most do so because they can't write it. Or because they've never even experienced it."

Mr. Carmichael looked at Ambrose with amusement. The time it took for him to walk from... somewhere and end up here had been full of nerves and confusement. But now that he remembered his name and met this young man, he felt more at ease.

"Your dad sounds like a good man. Was he the one who introduced you to books?"

Ambrose nodded. "He taught AP English. Had me reading the classics by the time I was in elementary. Reading... was how he connected with people he loved."

Which was why he made sure to continue that tradition with Cameron. Even though their future was stolen from them and they'd never have the father son dynamic they should've had. Cameron would always have a piece of their dad with him whenever he read a book.

It wasn't ideal but it was the best Ambrose could do given the circumstances.

"Grandpa!" Ambrose looked up, watching as Lilah ran towards them with Betty helping an older woman. Concern marred her usually carefree face, twisting it into something resembling shattering glass. "Poppa, are you ok?"

Mr. Carmichael turned to look at the young woman before him, startled. Her dark eyes were wide and checking him for reasons unknown. He frowned, feeling something tugging at the back of his mind. Frustration clawed within him when he fought against his foggy memory to recall who she was. But failed no matter how hard he tried.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I don't think I know you."

Lilah's breath caught. Her face fell. Yet she pushed her hurt feelings aside and grinned that sunshine smile he used to love so much.

"It's Bumblebee," she whispered, placing a hand on his arm. "Lilah?"

Mr. Carmichael gnawed on his bottom lip. He looked at her from a different angle, recalling a blur of a child-like face. But not enough to put a name to it or know for sure if this was the same kid from his spotty memory.

Turmoil brewed within him. Mr. Carmichael clenched his fist tightly. Once again his memory caused him so much trouble. He had to tell some poor soul that he didn't know who they were at the moment. With no success in sight, the happiness he felt earlier dissipated.

"It's alright." Lilah's smile became strained. When her grandfather met her eyes there was no sign of recollection. "Don't worry about it."

Ambrose finally noticed the attention they'd garnered. He bit his tongue, annoyed that so many people would openly ogle such a vulnerable moment. If Lilah cared, she didn't show it. She merely took it in stride and ignored the extra set of eyes upon them until the older woman arrived.

She dismissed Betty with a head tilt and leaned on her cane for extra support. "Philip?" Her husband's confused eyes met hers. Seeing him in such a way hurt more than the long trek it took to get from the restroom to the bar. "Are you alright?"

Mr. Carmichael fell into her ocean eyes before he knew what hit him. "You've got the prettiest eyes I've ever seen," he said. It was like muscle memory, how easily the line came to him.

Her sullen face transformed from an old woman into a young lady just shy of twenty-three. "Is that so? Seen a lot of pretty eyes, have you?"

The sound of screaming and fair rides flashed within his mind. Mr. Carmichael heard music and latched onto it, desperate for familiarity.

"I have," he replied, feeling like he was reading lines from a forgotten script. "But none hold a candle to yours."

Lilah watched with an aching heart as her grandparents relived the first moment they met. Only one of them truly remembered the day. That somehow made the experience ten times worse to witness.

She bit her bottom lip, glancing at Ambrose. He watched, observed, and for once, for once, she was grateful for his heated stare. There were no traces of judgment or pity. Only understanding and sympathy could be found in the waves of Ambrose's ocean eyes.

"We're heading home," Granny said in a low tone once she was able to hold her husband's hand again. "We'll see you tomorrow, then?"

Lilah broke the staring contest with Ambrose, giving a curt nod.

"Good. Now—"

"Ambrose!" Mr. Carmichael ceased walking, turning towards the new server with an accomplished grin. "You were born in Florence!"

"I—yeah. That's right," he said with a small smile when he saw how happy the old man looked to remember that detail about him.

"And you know about Aston Martin DB5's and you like romance books and historical ones too." Mr. Carmichael trailed off, confused again. He muttered, "I think I have a granddaughter that likes historical dramas."

Lilah deflated but she never let the smile on her face waver. It was better to be partially remembered as opposed to being completely forgotten.

"Ambrose as in Ambrose Montgomery?" Granny's intrigued eyes swept over Ambrose before settling on Lilah. "This is the young man I've been hearing so much about lately?"

Lilah swallowed thickly. "Mhm."

Granny hummed, looking at her husband with gentle eyes. "Did you have a good talk?"

"It was very good. He's from Florence. I went there once."

"You did," she confirmed, remembering their honeymoon. "And what do you remember?"

Lilah watched them depart without sparing either of them a glance. It'd been a long time since she'd seen her grandfather talk so animatedly. She understood her grandmother's eagerness to absorb it all while she could.

"Alzheimer's?"

Lilah licked her lips, unfolding her trench coat from where it was draped over her arm. "Yeah," she replied, slipping it on and buttoning up. "Did he really—" Lilah bit her bottom lip again, feeling it starting to swell up after biting on it all night. "Did he really talk about all of those things with you?"

Ambrose nodded. "Cobblestones and gothic cathedrals. He was a little... scattered. But he was pretty present for most of the conversation."

Tugging on her gloves, Lilah allowed the sudden surge of happiness to wash over her. It lifted her dampened spirits and chased away any skepticism that might've remained.

"Thank you for... talking to him. Most people just," her gaze flicked towards the few pairs of eyes still watching them, "stare."

"It's fine." Ambrose leaned closer to pick up his full tray, remembering he was still on the clock. The action brought their faces closer. He pushed away the blurry memory that resurfaced and stepped away. "He's a cool dude."

They parted with only that brief moment of intimacy to satisfy their observers. When Ambrose got home he made sure Cameron was sleeping then double checked his homework. Once he was certain all the answers were correct he joined Vincent at the table to eat a late dinner of tomato soup.

Something caught his eye. Breaking off a piece of bread, he eyed the big present under the poorly decorated Christmas tree. Somehow, it looked messier than the first day Cameron and Vincent decorated it. After a while of staring Ambrose was certain that they'd added more stuff when he wasn't paying attention.

"Where'd the box come from?" he asked once dinner was over and the dishes were washed. He fell onto the couch with an exhausted groan, fighting the urge to rip off his tight uniform so he could breathe. "Vincent?"

Vicnent yawned, pressing a closed fist to his mouth. "Lilah dropped off the presents before you came home."

Ambrose froze when he heard the plural. Unbuttoning the top of his shirt, he leaned forward and rested his arms on his legs. The biggest gift belonged to Vincent and the modest one beside it was Jill's. Two small boxes sat beside them with a folded piece of paper taped on top. Curious, Ambrose got up and read the hastily written note.

Thank you for making my grandpa smile. I haven't seen him do that in a long time.

Merry Christmas,

Lilah

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Vote and/or Comment if you enjoyed this part!

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QOTD: What do you think of Grandpa Carmichael now that you've seen his condition? Do you think Ambrose will accept Lilah's gifts? Or will he prefer she "keep her money to herself" like last time?