Page 10 of Captive Bride

Taking a sip from my cooling green tea, I watched as a sofa—hideous plaid, definitely not to my taste—was hoisted and maneuvered with an expertise that spoke of years spent navigating tight corners and narrow hallways. But despite the ugliness of the furniture, there was something undeniably exciting about witnessing the beginnings of someone else's story unfold so close to home.

Cold sunlight poured over the scene, casting long shadows that danced lazily on my living room carpet. The day was bright, the sky a clear blue that you could get lost in if you stared too long, especially with the reflection on the snow. I let out a slow breath, feeling the fluttering in my chest settle into a rhythm more befitting a woman who'd seen more than her share of surprises—pleasant and otherwise.

"Adriana, what are you looking at?" Tristan's voice came from behind me, his presence a constant comfort even when he wasn't trying to be. “Weren’t you going to get the door?”

"Looks like we've got new neighbors," I said, turning my head just enough to see him in his wheelchair, the light catching the edges of his strong jawline. "Could be interesting."

"Or it could be trouble," he replied, though the corner of his lip twitched, betraying his own interest.

"Always the optimist," I teased. I stood for a moment longer at the window, watching the normalcy outside, allowing myself a small moment of envy for those simple slices of life that often felt so far from my grasp.

Then the doorbell rang again.

I glanced back at Tristan, his blue eyes narrowing with a hint of suspicion as he took in the sudden intrusion.

"Expecting someone?" His voice was a low rumble, scanning for a threat in the everyday occurrence.

"Hardly," I replied, my pulse quickening with a mixture of anticipation and the familiar itch of caution.

I moved swiftly, crossing the distance to the front door with practiced ease. My hand found the doorknob, turning it with a smooth motion as I braced myself for whatever—or whoever—waited on the other side.

As the door swung open, sunlight spilled into the foyer, framing our new neighbors in its generous glow. They stood side by side like figures from a quaint painting, their smiles broad and welcoming. The woman's hands were occupied with a tray, modestly veiled by a checkered cloth, hinting at the kind of home-baked diplomacy that suburban legends are made of. Her attire was casual but neat—a pair of capri pants paired with a simple blouse that spoke of an effortlessness I could appreciate. The man complemented her with his own version of laid-back charm: khakis and a polo shirt that didn't scream affluence but whispered comfort.

"Hi there! We're the Millers from across the street," the woman chirped, her voice carrying the melody of someone who hadn't tasted life's bitter turns. Or so it seemed.

"I’m Adriana," I said, offering a smile that matched hers in warmth if not in innocence. "Welcome to the neighborhood. And this is…”

They looked past me, and the aroma of baked sweetness hit me the moment I swung the door wider, an invisible welcome that felt like a cozy embrace. "Oh, you shouldn't have," I said, my tone genuine as I reached out to accept the dessert with both hands. Their offering, still warm from the oven, filled my palms and my heart with an unexpected joy.

"Please, come in," I urged them, stepping aside and motioning into our home with a quickness born of excitement. It wasa chance to knit ourselves into the fabric of this community, something far removed from the life I knew—a life where trust was currency, and neighbors were potential chess pieces in a grander scheme. But here, now, I wanted to believe in the simplicity of a welcoming gesture.

I placed their gift on the counter like treasure unearthed, the checkered cloth doing little to conceal the allure of what lay beneath. My eyes flicked to Tristan, searching for a sign of shared pleasure or, at the very least, acceptance. I didn't wait for his nod, but I hoped for it—hoped he'd see the olive branch for what it was and not another move in the games we were so accustomed to playing.

I shifted my weight, anticipation coursing through me as the new neighbors stepped into our sanctuary. Tristan's response was immediate, a silent but palpable assertion of his presence. He maneuvered his wheelchair with an ease that belied his tension, positioning himself subtly between me and the couple—a shield in the guise of casual interest.

"Please, have a seat," I offered, gesturing towards the plush sofa bathed in the late afternoon light. As they moved, Tristan's eyes trailed after them with the precision of a hawk eyeing its prey. His arms remained crossed over his chest, muscles defined beneath the fabric of his shirt, his posture as stiff as the spine of a book left unopened on the shelf.

"Thank you for this lovely welcome," the woman said, her voice filling the space with warm cadences.

I replied with a smile, doing my best to embody hospitality. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Tristan watching, his jaw set in a line that told me he wasn't swayed by pleasantries. Hestayed silent, letting me weave the conversation around him like threads pulled taut on a loom.

My gaze flickered back to him again, noting how he'd staked out his ground, an unspoken sentinel in our home. He had always been a fortress, his will ironclad, even now as he sat in stillness while life bustled around him. It was a familiar dance for us—me stepping forward with open hands, him guarding from the shadows.

But after we offered them drinks, the Millers explained that the movers were going to take a while, and actually, they’d bought the pastries from a lovely little bakery downtown. They were introducing themselves to everyone, but they were really glad to find a couple that seemed similar in age to them, and they were hoping to have kids within the next couple of years.

They were older than us, but not by much. A faint dusting of grey at the man's temples, soft lines etching the corners of his wife's eyes - they had weathered a few more years, possibly a few more hardships. But their eagerness was palpable, a youthful energy that vibrated in the air around them.

They prattled on about the neighborhood, the local schools, the charming little park just a block away. I found myself nodding along, swept up in their enthusiasm. It was contagious, their naivety, their optimism. It was a world away from the one Tristan and I lived in.

"I hope you'll forgive us," Mrs. Miller finally said, breaking into my thoughts with a sheepish smile. "We realize we're yattering on."

"Not at all, Mrs. Miller," I assured her, returning her smile with one of my own. Her husband gave me an appreciative nod, his gaze briefly flickering to Tristan before settling back on me.

“Please call me Amber,” she said. “Didn’t I tell you that? Gosh, I’m sorry, that’s so rude. This is my husband, David.”

“Nice to meet you. Like I said, I’m Adriana, and this is Tristan.”

Tristan glared at me, and I immediately realized my lapse of judgment. But these were nice people. They were our neighbors.

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