Sam.

~~~

A few days later, as the sun hung low in the sky, its golden light gloomed across the city. Ray and I arrived at Ardmore Avenue, the building standing tall and imposing, its familiar facade stirring a storm of emotions within me. Memories—some warm, others sharp and unforgiving—hovered over me like ghosts.

Ray pulled the car to a stop, and silence fell between us, heavy and unyielding. He reached across the console, his hand finding mine, warm and steady against my trembling fingers.

"Are you ready for this?" he asked softly, his voice laced with both concern and reassurance.

I took a shaky breath, trying to calm the storm fuming in my chest. "I think so. I need to do this, Ray. I need to face it."

He nodded, his gaze unwavering. "I'm right here with you, love."

I nodded back, though a part of me wasn't entirely convinced. Together, we stepped out of the car and approached the building. Each step felt heavier than the last, the hallway narrowing as we drew closer to my apartment. My chest tightened, and the smell of the space—clean now, though I swore I could still sense traces of what had happened—pricked at my memories.

As we reached the door, I hesitated, my breath catching in my throat. The events of that day rushed back with startling clarity: the gunshots, Scott's anguished face, the chaos that left me forever changed. My hand automatically reached for my almost healed shoulder.

Ray placed a hand on my back, the pressure leveling me. "Take your time, darling. We're in no rush."

I rubbed at my shoulder—a nervous habit I hadn't been able to shake—and nodded. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. I braced myself, expecting a grim reminder of the violence that had unfolded here.

Instead, sunlight spilled through the large windows, bathing the space in warmness. Long, yellow rays stretched across the floor, illuminating half-empty boxes scattered near the entrance. I blinked, almost startled by the calm cleanliness of the room.

Ray slipped off his shoes and glanced at me. "It's strange, the things you learn when life throws you curveballs," he said, breaking the silence. "The cops recommended a crime scene cleaning crew. I didn't even know that kind of job existed."

"Oh," I murmured, my voice barely audible as I toed off my boots. "I knew they existed, but you never mentioned it. I... I expected a mess."

He crouched to help me with my second boot, his touch careful and deliberate. "I wouldn't do that to you," he said simply, his voice steady. I smiled faintly, the smallest flicker of gratitude plugging through my unease.

The room filled with the rustle of packing paper and the faint clinking of glass as we began to sort through what remained of my life here. Cardboard boxes and rolls of tape littered the floor, creating an almost surreal blend of chaos and nostalgia.

Later, I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed in the bedroom, a box of old photos and mementos in my lap. My hands shook slightly as I sifted through the contents. Each item seemed to carry the weight of memories I wasn't sure I was ready to unpack.

Across the room, Ray carefully wrapped fragile items in bubble wrap, his movements methodical and calm.

I pulled out a framed photo of Scott and me from years ago. In it, we were laughing, carefree, and full of life—a stark contrast to the man he had become. My chest ached as I traced the edges of the frame, tears pricking the corners of my eyes.

Ray glanced over, immediately noticing the shift in my demeanor. He set down the vase he'd been wrapping and crossed the room to sit beside me.

"You okay?" he asked gently, his voice a soft balm against the raw edges of my emotions.

I shook my head, the tears finally spilling over. "I don't know if I can do this, Ray. Every box I open... it's like I'm opening a door to the past."

He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. "I know it's hard," he said, his voice steady. "But we have to face these memories if we want to move forward."

My voice cracked as I admitted, "I can't stop thinking about Scott. About what happened. The guilt—it's eating me alive."

Ray's grip tightened. "You can't blame yourself for what happened to Scott," he said firmly. "He made his own choices, love. You didn't put him on that path."

"But everywhere I look, I see reminders of him," I whispered, my gaze fixed on the photo in my lap. "Of that night. How do I move past that?"

Ray turned me gently to face him, his hands cupping my cheeks. His brown eyes locked onto mine, filled with love and determination. "We move past it by leaning on each other. By remembering that we survived. That we're still here, still fighting. You're not alone, love. I'm here with you, every step of the way."

A tear slid down my cheek, and he wiped it away with his thumb, the gesture tender and comforting. "I'm scared, Ray," I confessed. "Scared of remembering him, but also scared of being trapped in the past forever."

"We won't forget what he did," Ray said softly, his forehead resting against mine. "But we can't let his memory keep us stuck. We owe it to ourselves to create new memories."

I took a deep, steadying breath, his words sinking in. "You're right," I said, though my voice wavered. "I know you're right. I just... I think I'll need reminders sometimes."

He pressed a kiss to my forehead, lingering there as if willing his strength into me. "I'll be here to remind you, love. One step at a time, okay?"

Leaning into his embrace, I let his presence steady me. After a moment, I pulled away, my gaze dropping back to the photo. With a trembling hand, I placed it back in the box and closed the lid.

"Let's keep moving," I said, this time with more determination. "We have a lot to do."

Ray smiled, his eyes filled with pride, and together, we continued packing, one step closer to the new beginning we both desperately needed.

Two weeks later the steady buzz of the airplane engines was oddly soothing as Raymond and I settled into our plush first-class seats. The soft leather, the faint scent of lavender from the cabin, and the gentle clinking of glasses around us were a stark contrast to the whirlwind of emotions that had consumed our last days in Los Angeles.

I stared out the window, watching the endless expanse of clouds tinged with the orange and pink hues of sunset. My thoughts were a tangled web, a mix of nostalgia, anticipation, and anxiety.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Ray's voice broke through, his hand warm as it enveloped mine.

I turned to him, his familiar face grounding me. A soft smile tugged at my lips. "Just thinking about everything we're leaving behind. It feels so surreal and very final."

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Yeah, it's a big change. But I think it's the right one for us."

His calm certainty soothed some of the unease gnawing at me. "I know it is. Yesterday's going-away party was proof of that. At least we know we have support."

We spent as much time as we could with the guys, Ray's mom, and Molly, though she got back to New York a few days before us. And with my stitches out and shoulder sling mostly off we were ready to move.

Ray's eyes brightened as he leaned back slightly. "Logan's speech almost got me. I was this close to tearing up." He pinched his thumb and forefinger together for emphasis.

I laughed lightly. "It was sweet of him to move into your house to keep an eye on things."

"Yeah," Ray said, his voice tinged with pride. "He's really stepping up. I think he's finally ready for more responsibility."

His words settled between us, and silence enveloped us for a moment. I could feel the unspoken worries lingering, but Ray shifted in his seat, his lips curving into a playful grin.