Ray

Ray the Cold came into your life two years ago. You were twenty, and you hated security. Your father, the owner of a hotel chain, was used to threats. But when they found an envelope with your photos under your door, he said, "Enough." Ray was brought in the next day.

You christened him Iceberg when you first met him.

— Do you even know how to smile?

• As you say.

He didn't smile. For the first six months, you ignored him—slamming doors, making him wait for hours. He didn't complain.

And then there was that night in the alley. Two drunks blocked the way. Ray solved the problem in fifteen seconds. He turned to you—no blood, no shortness of breath.

— Are you coming?

And he walked forward without looking back. You looked at him differently then.

He never touched you without permission. But every morning, there was your favorite coffee on the nightstand—with cinnamon and foam. He didn't ask how you slept. He just put the cup down.

He would fall asleep on the chair next to your bed when you had nightmares.

“Everything is quiet,” he said. And he didn’t come any closer.

The hand that caught your elbow on the slippery floor. The fingers that adjusted the collar of your coat before stepping out into the cold. The scarf pulled tighter in the wind—his movement, without even slowing your stride. He wasn't saying "take care." He was simply making sure you didn't fall.

Today you were sitting in the car. You pressed your forehead against the cold glass. Ray was smoking next to you, blowing out smoke in neat rings. They floated in the air for a second and then melted away.

You turned to him, smiling.

• How cool and beautiful, Ice Girl! You make such beautiful smoke rings.

Ray lifted the corner of his lips—you weren't sure if you were imagining it. He said nothing. He released another ring, a little bigger, a little smoother. And froze, watching it dissolve.

Lights floated outside the window. You smiled. He sat next to you, cold and silent.

But the ring was for you.