Outside, the evening air felt colder than it should have.
Lily stood near the curb, shopping bag hanging from her fingers like an afterthought. The mall lights glowed behind them, artificial and forgiving—nothing like the truth pressing against her chest.
Raymond stopped a step away from her.
Too far to hold.
Too close to ignore.
"Lily," he said, low and careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. "I need to say something."
Her shoulders tensed immediately. She already knew that tone. She'd heard it before—years ago—right before everything good was taken back.
"You don't have to," she said quietly.
"I do."
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. When he looked at her again, the darkness in his eyes was restrained, caged.
"I don't want to scare you," he said. "Earlier… the way I spoke. The way I looked at you."
Her heart sank, right on cue.
"I'm not trying to be anything I'm not," he continued. "I'm just your neighbor. Someone who cares. That's all."
Just your neighbor.
The words landed exactly where they were meant to—clean, precise, devastating.
Lily nodded before she could stop herself. "Right," she said, forcing a small smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course."
What was she expecting, anyway?
Men didn't stay. They clarified. They corrected misunderstandings. They reminded her of her place when she dared to feel too much.
She should've known better than to let her guard slip. Should've known that moments—soft voices, shared silence, concern that felt intimate—were never promises. They were accidents. Misread signals.
Raymond watched her closely. "You're upset."
"I'm fine," she replied automatically.
He shook his head. "You're lying."
She laughed, sharp and humorless. "You already drew the line, Raymond. Don't cross it just to check how much it hurt."
That made him still.
"I didn't mean it like that," he said.
"I know," she whispered. "That's the problem."
She turned away slightly, blinking fast. She refused to cry here. Refused to let herself look like someone who mistook basic care for affection.
Again.
"I forgot," she said, her voice steady but tired. "I forget sometimes that men can be kind without wanting anything. That not everything means more."
Raymond's jaw tightened. "It can mean more," he said carefully. "I just don't want to push you into something you're not ready for."
Her chest ached. "I didn't ask you to."
"I know."
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.
Then he shifted, the heaviness returning—but different now. Practical. Concerned.
"Lily," he said, softer. "There's something else."
She braced herself. "What?"
He hesitated. For the first time since she'd met him, he looked unsure.
"You mentioned earlier… the pregnancy," he said. "You said you've been feeling off."
Her hand instinctively went to her stomach.
"Yes."
"I think," he continued slowly, "we should go to a clinic. Just to see a doctor. Make sure everything is okay."
The words stunned her.
Not are you keeping it?
Not what are you going to do?
Just—are you okay?
She stared at him. "You don't have to do that."
"I know," he replied. "But I want to."
There it was again.
That word.
She swallowed. "Why?"
"Because whether I'm just your neighbor or not," he said, meeting her eyes, "you're carrying something fragile. And you shouldn't be alone with that."
Her throat tightened painfully.
"You're not responsible for me," she said.
"I'm aware," he replied. "This isn't responsibility. It's concern."
She looked away, emotions swirling—gratitude tangled with disappointment, relief fighting fear.
A clinic meant confirmation. Truth. Facing something she'd been avoiding out of terror that history would repeat itself.
"What if it's bad news?" she whispered.
"Then we deal with it," he said. "One step at a time."
We.
She caught that. He didn't correct himself.
She nodded slowly. "Okay."
Relief flickered across his face—but he kept his distance, honoring the boundary he'd just drawn.
"I'll walk you home," he said. "We can go tomorrow. Or whenever you're ready."
She managed a small smile. "Thank you… neighbor."
The word tasted bitter on her tongue.
As they walked, their shoulders almost touched but never did. The space between them felt louder than the traffic.
Lily stared ahead, heart heavy.
She wasn't angry at him.
She was angry at herself—for hoping, for expecting, for forgetting that love had always been a repeating error.
And yet…
When she reached her door and turned to say goodnight, Raymond was still there. Watching her like she mattered. Like he cared—even if he refused to claim her.
"Goodnight, Lily," he said.
"Goodnight."
She closed the door and leaned against it, one hand over her stomach, the other pressed to her chest.
Just a neighbor.
So why did it feel like losing something she never had?