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The hour is late.
So late, the night itself seems to hold its breath, each tick of the unseen clock heightening the tension that wraps around you. London's usually bustling streets are eerily quiet, the city's heartbeat slowed to a near standstill. The shadows feel heavier, somehow, and you find your hand shaking slightly as you fumble with the strap of your bag.
This isn't rational, you tell yourself, trying in vain to slow the racing thoughts in your mind. It's just a car ride, just a trip home. But every footstep echoing off the cobblestones sounds like a predator's stalk rather than a simple passerby, every gust of wind more like a threat than nature's sigh.
Across the way, Lily is watching from the driving seat. Her red hair catches the glow from the lone streetlight nearby, a fiery beacon in the encroaching darkness. She watches you without speaking, her green eyes soft and a small smile playing on her lips.
You shift, the gravel crunching underfoot, and cast one last glance over your shoulder before reaching for the front door. Your keys rattle in your trembling hand, their metallic gleam catching the sparse light from the streetlamp. Behind you, the purr of her car's engine remains a steady hum—a reassurance that she hasn't left yet.
"Damn," you mutter as the key slips from your grasp, clattering against the wooden porch. The sound seems too loud in the stillness, but when you look back, she's still there. Her silhouette is barely visible through the windshield, unmoving.
Finally, the key finds its home in the lock, the door creaking open to reveal the darkened interior of your house. You hesitate, half-expecting her to call out or drive away. But instead, she sits there, a silent sentinel bathed in the glow of her headlights.
The door swings wide, and you step across the threshold, lingering in the doorway long enough to see her headlights blink once. Only then does her car begin to move, pulling away from the curb with deliberate slowness, as if time itself has slowed to match the heaviness in your chest. There's no hurry in her departure—no urgency to escape what's been done.
The door closes behind you, the click of the latch echoing in the empty hallway. Lily always waits until she hears that sound. You've told her countless times that it isn't necessary—that you'll be fine once you're inside—but she insists on this small measure of security.
She never explains why, but you think it might be because she cares.
And that knowledge—that someone out there cares enough to wait—does something to the tight knot of anxiety in your chest. It doesn't unravel completely, but it loosens just a fraction.
You lean against the closed door, eyes shut as you take a moment to simply breathe. The air is stale with disuse, yet it's also comforting in its familiarity. This is your space, untouched by the outside world's harsh judgment and unending demands. Here, you are safe.
Because Lily waited.