"Can we go shopping?"
Lily frozed.
The question felt wrong—too normal, too light—coming from a man like Raymond. A man with shadows clinging to him like a second skin. A man whose laughter she had heard the night before, sharp and alive, belonging to someone else.
She turned slowly to face him. "Shopping?" she echoed, her voice flat.
"Yes." He didn't smile. Didn't joke. His eyes stayed on her face like he was studying a wound he didn't know how to touch. "I thought maybe… you shouldn't be alone today."
That did it.
Something cracked open inside her chest—not relief, not happiness, but the old familiar fear of being seen too clearly.
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
Raymond stepped closer. Not enough to touch her. Just enough that she could feel his presence—heavy, deliberate. "You're not," he said quietly. "And you don't have to lie to me."
She looked away.
Seven years had taught her that moments like this always came with a cost. Kindness was never free. It was always followed by betrayal, silence, or the sound of another woman's name whispered when she thought she was alone.
"I don't need anything," she muttered.
"I know," he replied. "That's not what this is."
That answer unsettled her more than if he'd insisted.
She hesitated too long. He noticed.
"If you say no," he added, his voice dropping, "I'll drop it. I won't ask again."
There was no challenge in his tone. No manipulation. Just a boundary—clean and dangerous in its honesty.
Lily swallowed.
"Okay," she said. "But just for a bit."
Raymond nodded once, like he'd won something he wasn't celebrating.
The mall was loud. Too loud. Voices overlapping, music bleeding from stores, life happening carelessly around her. Lily felt like a ghost moving through it—present but detached.
Raymond walked beside her, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense. She wondered if crowds bothered him. If places like this reminded him of the town he ran from. Of the blood he could never wash off his hands no matter how many times he told himself it had been self-defense.
"You're quiet," she said.
"So are you."
She huffed a humorless laugh. "That's normal for me."
"I know," he replied. "But today it feels heavier."
She glanced at him. "You always talk like that?"
"Only when I care."
The word care slid into her ribs and lodged there painfully.
They entered a clothing store. Lily drifted toward the darker colors instinctively—black, wine red, deep green. Colors that didn't ask to be noticed. Colors that hid stains.
Raymond followed but didn't crowd her. He picked up items, put them back, watched her reflections in mirrors more than he watched the clothes.
She caught him staring.
"What?" she snapped, sharper than she meant to.
He didn't flinch. "You look like you're waiting for something bad to happen."
Her throat tightened. "That's because it usually does."
He stepped closer then. Too close. Her back brushed a rack of coats.
"Did he make you feel like that?" Raymond asked softly.
Her pulse spiked. "You don't get to ask about him."
"I know," he said. "But I'm going to anyway."
That should've scared her.
Instead, it made her breath hitch.
"Yes," she whispered. "He did."
Raymond's jaw tightened. She saw it—the barely restrained violence, the fury aimed not at her but at a man he'd never met. A man who'd taken too much and left her hollow.
"I won't," he said.
She laughed bitterly. "They all say that."
"I'm not all of them."
"That's what makes you dangerous," she shot back.
His eyes darkened. "Good."
The word sent a shiver down her spine.
In the fitting room hallway, he handed her a dress—black, fitted, unapologetic.
"Try this."
She frowned. "It's not me."
"It could be," he said. "If you let it."
That sounded like a threat. Or a promise.
Inside the fitting room, Lily stared at her reflection. The dress clung to her curves, sharp and soft all at once. She looked… powerful. Like someone who didn't beg to be loved.
She stepped out.
Raymond froze.
For a long moment, he didn't speak. Didn't smile. Just looked at her like he was recalibrating something inside himself.
"Raymond?" she said quietly.
He exhaled slowly. "You don't see yourself the way others do."
"That's because others always leave," she replied.
His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. "I won't."
Her heart slammed painfully. "You can't promise that."
"I already did," he said. "The night I told you my past."
She remembered. The blood. The running. The way his voice hadn't shaken when he said he'd killed someone.
"Why are you really being nice to me?" she asked again, her voice barely holding together.
He stepped into her space fully now. The fitting room curtain brushed his arm. She could smell him—soap, something darker underneath.
"Because I know what it's like," he said. "To be blamed. To be used. To be abandoned when you needed someone to stay."
Her chest burned.
"I don't want saving," she whispered.
"I'm not trying to save you," he replied. "I want to stand beside you while you burn."
That was it.
That was the moment she knew this wasn't safe.
At the checkout, she reached for her card.
Raymond caught her wrist.
The touch was light—but it anchored her.
"I'll pay," he said.
"No," she snapped. "I don't want to owe you."
"You don't owe me anything," he said calmly. "This isn't ownership. It's care."
She searched his face for the lie.
She didn't find one.
Outside, the sun was setting, painting the sky bruised purple. Lily clutched the shopping bag like it was proof that something good had happened without punishment following it.
They stopped walking at the curb.
"You were hurt earlier," Raymond said quietly.
She stiffened.
"I shouldn't have laughed like that," he continued. "I should've told you immediately. That she was my sister."
"You don't owe me explanations," Lily said.
"I want to give them anyway," he replied. "Because I see how fast you disappear inside yourself when you feel replaced."
Her eyes burned.
He stepped closer. "Look at me."
She did.
"I'm not him," Raymond said. "And I never will be."
Her voice broke. "What if I'm the problem?"
His hand lifted, hesitated, then cupped her cheek. Warm. Steady.
"Then we'll be broken together," he said.
That was the most terrifying thing anyone had ever offered her.
Because love had always been a repeating error.
And this time… she wasn't sure she wanted to correct it.