So there I was. Sitting in a gas station parking lot, drenched in sweat, trying not to cry.
Sterling had drugged me. And I didn't know what to do with that.
And then, Neal texted me. "Hey. How are you?"
I could've lied. Said "fine." Could've ghosted the message. Pretended I hadn't just run out of a party like the final girl in a thriller film. But I didn't.
Instead, I typed out the truth. "Honestly? Awful."
He asked if I wanted to talk.
And like the emotionally stable, logical woman I absolutely was not, I drove across town and went to his house.
Because when you've just escaped someone pretending to be safe, sometimes you run toward the only kind of safe you've known—even if it's still a stranger with an Xbox and a solid beard.
Was it smart? Absolutely not. Did I go inside? Yes. Did we talk? Yes. Did I cry? Also yes.
His apartment smelled like laundry and leftover pizza. The TV was paused mid-game. He tossed the controller aside when I walked in and just… opened his arms.
We sat on the couch, not touching at first. Not laughing. Just letting the weight of the night hang between us like a blanket soaked in regret and leftover whiskey. He didn't push. He didn't ask.
He didn't try anything.
And maybe that's why this whole thing worked. Because when I needed a body beside mine that didn't scare me, he showed up. No labels. No expectations. Just presence.
I never told him what happened that night. Not because I didn't trust him. But because I didn't want pity. I didn't want him to look at me like I was broken. And I definitely didn't want him to think I was stupid.
But that night, Neal gave me something Sterling didn't.
Silence. Safety. No pretending.
He let me cry. Held me. Rubbed my back. Made that soft hushing noise you make to babies, like he was trying to calm something deeper than fear.
He didn't fix it. He didn't try. He just sat with me like I was worth holding through the ruin.
And for the first time that night, I felt safe again. Not saved. Just… safe.
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I never told him about that night, and he never asked. I think maybe he knew not to. Or maybe he just understood that if I needed to say it, I would. I didn't.
But I stayed. In his life. And he stayed in mine.
We drifted into something undefined, comfortable and complicated in the most modern of ways.
We dated for nine months. Then again for eight. And not once did we slap a label on it.
Here's the weird thing: we were exclusive when it came to sex. Yep, no condoms. Keeping it clean, people. But dating? A total free-for-all. It was a classic case of "We're not officially together, but let's have great sex and pretend everything else is normal."
We had a rule: if either of us wanted to start dating or sleeping with someone else, we'd talk about it. And we did. We talked about everything. Crushes. Bad days. Dumb memes. Sometimes we even gave each other dating advice for other people.
We were friends. With a side of great sex. And mutual respect.
He lived 45 minutes away with roommates. I lived at home with my parents. Not exactly a recipe for spontaneous romance. But somehow, it worked.
It was the IKEA relationship, functional, familiar, emotionally unassembled. All the pieces were there. We just never built a future.
And the truth? I tried to fall for him. I really wanted to.
Not because he was my soulmate or the love of my life. But because he felt safe. After everything with Sterling, I needed to choose what happened to my body again. I needed someone who didn't scare me. Someone I could say yes to... on my terms.
And Neal made that easy.
But safety isn't love. And warmth isn't always a spark.
We never caught feelings. Or maybe I just never caught them the way I wanted to. I kept waiting for something deeper to click. Something loud and obvious and undeniable. But it never came.
Still, he mattered to me. Deeply. He was important. Because before anything else, we were friends. And that meant something.
Later, I asked him why he never asked me to be his girlfriend. He looked at me, confused, and said, "I didn't think you wanted that."
And he was right. I didn't. I wanted closeness, not commitment. Comfort, not chaos. I wanted to feel wanted without being owned.
And that's exactly what we gave each other.
A soft place to land. A safe space. A little intimacy without the pressure of forever. Permission to just exist beside someone without constantly negotiating expectations.
Now he's engaged. We're still Facebook friends. And I'm happy for him. Genuinely.
That time in our lives served its purpose. Neither of us walked away bitter. Neither of us walked away broken.
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Not all stories end in disaster. Some just drift. Quiet, simple, unbroken. Like this one.
In this beautiful disaster we call modern dating, communication is everything. Unless it's a one-night stand, then maybe just keep it to "yes," "no," and "are you clean?"
But for everything else, casual or undefined, simple or tangled, communication is the relationship.
This kind of setup isn't for everyone. But it worked for us. And honestly? That counts as a win.