The next few weeks slipped by like a dream Lucy wasn’t sure she wanted to wake from.
Every morning smelled of coffee and rain, every night of soft music from Peter’s old stereo. It was the kind of ordinary peace she had only seen in other people’s lives — now it was hers, even if she didn’t know for how long.

Peter kept his word: he protected her. From questions, from the outside world, even from herself sometimes.
When the nightmares came — the ones filled with her father’s voice and the crack of breaking glass — Peter would wake her, holding her wrists gently until she stopped shaking.

“You’re safe now,” he’d whisper every time. “No one can hurt you here.”
And she believed him.

One morning, Lucy stepped outside the apartment for the first time since she arrived.
The air felt different — too bright, too full of voices. She had almost forgotten how busy the world was. People brushed past her, laughing, shouting into phones, chasing buses. Every sound felt sharp and new.

She stopped by a small flower shop at the corner. The woman behind the counter — maybe in her thirties, with messy curls and a soft smile — looked up and said, “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

Lucy hesitated. “Yeah… kind of.”

“Well, welcome. I’m Mia.” The woman wiped her hands on her apron. “You look like you could use a little color.”

Before Lucy could reply, Mia tucked a small white daisy behind her ear. “There. Much better.”

Lucy laughed, surprised by the sound of it. “Thank you. I—uh—don’t usually wear flowers.”

“Maybe you should start,” Mia said. “They make sad eyes look softer.”

Something in her tone was gentle, not pitying. Lucy nodded, mumbling another thank you before leaving the shop. For hours afterward, she couldn’t stop touching the petal tucked behind her ear.

That evening, she told Peter about it — about Mia and the shop and how kind she’d been.

He didn’t smile.
“Be careful who you talk to,” he said quietly.

Lucy frowned. “She’s harmless. She owns a flower shop.”

“That’s what makes people dangerous,” Peter said, setting his fork down. “They look harmless.”

She looked at him — the tightness in his jaw, the small tremor in his hand.
“You don’t trust anyone, do you?” she asked softly.

He looked at her for a long time. “I trust you.”

She wanted to believe that meant something good. But the way he said it — steady, serious — made her wonder if it was a promise or a warning.

Days passed, and Lucy began helping at Mia’s flower shop. It wasn’t much — arranging bouquets, cleaning petals, writing down orders — but it gave her something she hadn’t felt in years: belonging.

Mia introduced her to Eli, the quiet boy who worked deliveries, and Nora, who managed the shop’s books. They were loud, funny, and completely normal — and Lucy loved that.

“You’ve got that lost look,” Nora teased one afternoon. “The one people get before they realize this place is a madhouse.”

Lucy smiled shyly. “Maybe I needed a madhouse.”

They laughed, and for a moment, she forgot Peter’s warnings. She forgot the heaviness that lived somewhere behind his kindness.

For the first time in forever, Lucy had friends.

That night, when she got home later than usual, Peter was waiting in the dark.
The light from the hallway framed his silhouette — still, silent, unreadable.

“Where were you?” His voice was calm, but his eyes weren’t.

“I told you. I went to help at the flower shop—”

“I came by,” he interrupted. “You weren’t there.”

Her breath caught. “I—Mia asked me to stay for tea. It got late, I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think,” he repeated, stepping closer. “You just forgot.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, stepping back. “I didn’t mean—”

He sighed, and just like that, the tension vanished. “No, Lucy. I’m sorry. I just… worry. You know how dangerous people can be.”

She nodded slowly, though something deep inside her trembled.
Peter reached out, his hand brushing her hair back from her face. “You’re all I have, Lucy. Don’t disappear on me.”

His voice cracked on the last word — and against all reason, all instinct, she felt guilty.
She was the one who had made him upset. She was the one who needed to fix it.

“I won’t,” she promised softly. “I’ll tell you next time.”

His smile returned, small and almost tender. “Good girl.”

Later that night, when he fell asleep, Lucy sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the pendant around her neck. Don’t be afraid.
She wondered if the words were meant as comfort — or command.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A message from Mia.

Mia: You okay? You left so fast earlier.
Mia: Just wanted to say I’m glad you came by today. You look lighter somehow. :)

Lucy smiled faintly and started typing:

Lucy: I’m okay. Thanks, Mia. You make the world feel safe.

But before she could press send, Peter shifted in his sleep.
His hand brushed her wrist.
And for a second, his eyes opened — unfocused, half-asleep, but she heard him murmur, “Don’t… leave…”

Her throat tightened.
She deleted the message.

The next morning, Peter was his usual self — smiling, gentle, making breakfast as if last night hadn’t happened.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said. “You’ve got that stormy face again.”

Lucy forced a small laugh. “Just tired.”

He reached over and poured her coffee. “Then rest today. You don’t need anyone but me anyway.”

She didn’t answer, staring at the black swirl in her cup.
Somewhere in that silence, a thought she didn’t want to think began to take shape.
If this is safety… why does it feel so much like a cage?