Strangers Made Perfect

Episode 12: Safe Heights

November in the UK had always felt gray to Paris — rain pooling on pavements, daylight swallowed early, the damp clinging to her bones. But this year, it was different. This year, she had Raphael.

It started with coffee. Always coffee. A flat white here, a cappuccino there, a takeaway latte slipped into her hand at the care centre before shift. Then it became lunch breaks stolen in a tiny cafés near the care centre, the chatter of other patrons fading as Raphael’s laugh filled the space between them.

By mid-November, he had coaxed her into small adventures. St. George’s Market on a Saturday, where he bought her a sugared doughnut and insisted on carrying her tote bag even though it held nothing but apples. A film night with other staff, where Raphael claimed the seat beside her and handed her popcorn without asking if she wanted it.

And then Belfast Castle on Sunday.

Paris had almost said no when he suggested it. The idea felt too much like a date — and not just any date, but the kind people remembered, the kind colleagues whispered about. But Raphael’s enthusiasm had been disarming.

“You’ve lived here over a year and you’ve never been?” he said, eyes wide with mock horror. “Paris, that’s practically a crime.”

So she went.

They walked the sloping paths up to the castle grounds, breath visible in the sharp November air. The city stretched below them, roofs and spires shrouded in mist.

Raphael pointed out the cranes at Harland & Wolff, then the shimmer of the Lagan. “You see? From up here, you can almost map the whole place,” he said.

Paris teased him that he’d been rehearsing the tour, and he grinned. “Maybe. I did promise to be your guide, remember?”

When she told him he’d already delivered, he shook his head. “Not quite. This is just the warm-up. I still owe you Cavehill — I said in summer we’d climb it.”

Paris laughed that Cavehill was a bit steeper than this, but he only shrugged. “All the better. You’ll see the city properly then, not just through mist. Promise me you’ll come.”

Inside, he bought her tea in the café, insisting she pick the scone with clotted cream. She laughed when he got powdered sugar on his nose, and for once the sound felt free, unguarded. He leaned in across the table, eyes warm, and said, “See? Belfast looks better from up here.”

She smiled, and for a fleeting moment, she almost believed it.

The gossip at the care centre shifted completely. Paris and Raphael. By now, their names rolled off tongues easily, not as a whisper but as a fact. Colleagues nudged her, teased her, even smiled approvingly when they saw Raphael waiting to walk her out after shift. The sharp sting of Liam’s shadow had dulled.

In the break room, the chatter was relentless.

“So…” Moira, one of the domestic staff, leaned forward over her tea, her grin wide. “Who saw our Paris yesterday? Hand in hand with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome himself?”

“Oh, I did,” chimed in Janine, a care assistant, slapping her palm against the table. “He was waiting outside, leaning on the railing like some kind of movie star. And when Paris came out? Boom. Straight to her side. Like clockwork.”

The group chuckled.

“Honestly,” Moira added, stirring her tea dramatically, “if a man ever waited for me after a twelve-hour shift, I’d marry him on the spot.”

Laughter rippled through the room.

“Don’t tempt fate,” another care assistant, Sarah, teased. “Raphael’s the patient type, that’s for sure. And he’s easy on the eyes. Paris caught herself a good one.”

Paris flushed as she set her mug down a little too hard on the counter. “You lot really need new hobbies.”

“Come on, Paris,” Moira grinned. “You can’t expect us not to notice. It’s sweet. You deserve sweet.”

“She’s glowing,” Janine added with mock seriousness, pointing a biscuit at Paris. “That’s the look of a woman who’s got someone bringing her coffee that isn’t from the vending machine.”

The others roared, and even Paris couldn’t help but laugh despite her embarrassment. “You’re all terrible.”

“Terrible but right,” Sarah sing-songed. “Paris and Raphael. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

The break room erupted into playful agreement.

Paris shook her head, cheeks warm but lips curved in a reluctant smile. For the first time in weeks, the laughter around her didn’t sting. It almost felt… safe.

And Liam himself was gone.

Word drifted quietly through the centre: he had flown to the U.S. on business. Some said it was for the hotel group. Others claimed it was a new investment. Paris didn’t ask. She was almost grateful. His absence made it easier to breathe.

Still, the whispers found her.

At the nurses’ station, George leaned over the counter, lowering his voice but not enough to keep it private. “Did you hear? O’Reilly’s gone stateside. Something about a hotel expansion, or maybe butter.”

“Butter?” Claudio frowned, stacking charts into a tray. “What’s a billionaire want with butter?”

George shrugged. “Apparently, it’s some premium brand. Spring Maid, or whatever. Americans love that organic stuff.”

Claudio snorted. “Man owns half of Belfast already. Now he wants toast too?”

They both laughed, the sound bouncing off the sterile walls.

Paris tried to keep her head down, eyes fixed on her paperwork, but George caught her anyway. “Paris, you’d know better than us. He say anything to you about it?”

Her pen froze against the chart. Slowly, she shook her head. “No. Why would he?”

Claudio smirked. “Because he’s always hanging around when you’re on shift.”

“Claudio,” George warned lightly, elbowing him.

Paris forced a thin smile, gathering her notes. “I wouldn’t know his business even if I wanted to. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have meds to give.”

She walked away before they could press further, her cheeks hot. Their laughter followed her down the corridor, harmless to anyone else—but to Paris, it was a reminder. Even gone, Liam O’Reilly still managed to stir the air she was trying so hard to breathe.

For a while, their days had been simple—coffee dates, unhurried walks, easy laughter that softened the edges of long shifts. With Raphael, life slipped into a gentle rhythm, predictable and kind.

But on the walk back from Belfast Castle, her hand warming inside his coat pocket where he’d tucked it against the wind, Paris found her gaze drifting over the city below. The sprawl of lights blurred in her vision, and she wondered—not for the first time—why the memory of another man’s eyes still burned hotter than all this safety combined.

She forced the thought down, steadying herself against Raphael’s presence, letting his quiet constancy hold her in place. This was better, she reminded herself.

Better.

Safer.

And safer had to be enough.

Raphael glanced down at her, his breath visible in the sharp November air. “Cold?”

“A little,” she admitted, though the truth was her chest ached more than her fingers.

“Good thing you’ve got the pocket upgrade.” He squeezed her hand lightly where it rested against his side. “Comes with free central heating.”

She laughed softly. “And here I thought you were just generous.”

“I am,” he said, mock-offended. “But only with people worth freezing my hand off for.”

Paris shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously charming,” he countered with a grin.

Her cheeks warmed. “Now you’re pushing it.”

They walked a few paces in silence, boots crunching against the gravel path. Below them, the city lights flickered like a scatter of jewels.

“You know,” Raphael said after a moment, more thoughtful now, “I like this.”

Paris tilted her head. “What?”

“This,” he gestured between them, his voice steady. “The quiet. No noise, no rushing. Just… being here with you. It feels good.”

Something in his words caught her off guard. She blinked at him, then away, her throat tightening. “Yeah. It does.”

He smiled, not pushing, just letting the moment settle. “You’re easy to be with, Paris. Some people feel like work. With you? It feels… natural.”

Her heart clenched. She wanted to believe it. Wanted the simplicity of his words to be enough to silence the storm inside her.

“Natural’s good,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

Raphael gave her hand another squeeze. “It’s more than good. It’s rare.”

Paris smiled faintly, leaning closer into his warmth. Rare, maybe. Safe, definitely. But her chest betrayed her, aching for something else—something she couldn’t name without letting Liam’s face rush back into her mind.

So she held tighter to Raphael’s arm, anchored herself in the comfort he offered, and told herself again: safer had to be enough.