The afternoon sun slanted through the window as Raymond leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Don't you think… we should attend that wedding together?" he said, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.
I blinked at him, caught off guard. "Together? You mean… go to her wedding with me?"
He laughed softly, the sound warm and unthreatening. "Well, yes. If you're going, might as well have someone watching your back, right?"
I couldn't help it—I laughed too, the tension of the past days cracking just enough for genuine amusement. It was strange, laughing like this again, after betrayal, after heartbreak. The sound felt almost foreign, but welcome.
"You're ridiculous," I said, shaking my head with a smile.
"And you'd need ridiculous company to survive that," he replied, still smiling. "Come on, Lily. Just a neighbor helping a neighbor."
We left my small apartment together and wandered down the street toward his place, talking as we went. His apartment wasn't much larger than mine, but it had a warmth to it—a lived-in coziness that made me feel strangely at ease. Once inside, he suggested we cook something together.
"Cooking is always better with two people," he said simply, handing me a knife to chop vegetables.
I felt my guard loosen as we worked side by side. The mundane task—slicing, stirring, seasoning—felt grounding, almost comforting. Conversation flowed naturally. He asked about small things: favorite foods, childhood hobbies, favorite colors. I told him about a few trivial things, careful to keep the deeper wounds private.
At some point, I realized I was laughing again, truly laughing, not the nervous, forced kind. And for the first time in months, I felt safe—really safe—in someone's presence. My shoulders relaxed. My heartbeat slowed. The sharp edge of anxiety dulled.
Raymond's tone softened, growing serious. "What about your family?" he asked gently, his eyes searching mine.
I stiffened, a flicker of discomfort crossing my face. I didn't want to talk about them—not now, not here. "It's… complicated," I said lightly, brushing it off. "Don't worry about it."
He nodded, not pressing, and we returned to cooking and chatting, the room filled with the quiet rhythm of knives against cutting boards and laughter. It was… normal. Safe. And it scared me slightly, because I wasn't used to normal.
Night came fast. Shadows stretched across the room as I followed him back to my apartment, grateful for the escort. The world felt darker now, the wind through the trees whispering in unsettling patterns.
And then we saw it—a snake, coiled near the door to my room, its tongue flicking cautiously.
I froze, the fear crawling up my spine like ice.
Raymond reacted instantly. "Step back," he instructed calmly. In one fluid motion, he killed it, the snake's body curling lifelessly at his feet. My chest heaved, and I clutched my hands to my stomach, the adrenaline making me shake.
He turned to me, expression gentle. "You're okay," he said. "It's gone."
I nodded mutely, still trembling. "Thank… thank you," I whispered.
"You don't have to be scared," he said quietly, his voice calm and grounding. "I can help you clear the bushes around your place tomorrow, make sure nothing like this happens again."
I felt a strange comfort in his words. Not love. Not desire. Just protection. A neighbor keeping a promise.
"I… that would be good," I murmured, grateful yet embarrassed. "I—"
He didn't wait for me to finish. He simply nodded, a quiet understanding passing between us. "Rest tonight. I'll handle the yard tomorrow."
He left soon after, and I closed the door behind him, forcing myself to sleep. The adrenaline faded, leaving behind an ache in my chest—a mixture of fear, relief, and something unspoken I couldn't name.
But sleep was elusive. My mind churned relentlessly. Glen. The wasted years, the betrayals, the heartbreak. And then Raymond. Calm, capable, protective… someone who had seen me at my worst and hadn't recoiled. The contrast between the two men gnawed at me, an uncomfortable truth I wasn't ready to face.
I lay in the dark, listening to the night, the small apartment feeling simultaneously too small and safe. The shadows from the trees outside stretched across the walls, and I could still feel the weight of the snake, the sharpness of the fear, and the strange comfort of having someone by my side—even if just for a moment.
Eventually, my body forced a kind of surrender. Sleep came in fits, shallow and restless. My dreams were tangled—a mix of past betrayal, fleeting laughter, and the shadow of Raymond's presence, steady and unwavering.
And when I woke, still alone, the thought lingered: Glen had wasted so much of my life. But maybe… maybe Raymond could help me reclaim some of it.
The thought was cautious, unformed, a spark in the darkness of my exhaustion and fear. But for the first time in weeks, I felt the possibility of safety, of protection, of being seen without judgment.
And that, I realized, might be enough for now