Raylan wasn't entirely sure why he'd volunteered to return Sarah Geller's belongings to her at her home. Maybe he was just looking for a distraction from Robert Quarles and the Dixie Mafia. Maybe he'd been genuinely curious about how she was doing. She had once saved his life, after all.

Whatever the reason, Raylan was glad he had offered to make the trip as soon as he pulled up. He stopped just short of the woman's single-story house when he recognized the all too familiar form of Tim Gutterson standing awkwardly on her front lawn.

Raylan threw his car in park and smiled, wondering how the junior Deputy was possibly going to explain his presence once Raylan called him out for it. He'd wait, he decided, for the right opening to present itself because this was too good an opportunity to pass up.

He watched as Tim knocked on the front door and Geller let him in. Raylan found himself hoping that maybe he'd get to watch her slap Tim right across the face. He didn't know why, honestly, but for some reason, he thought it would be fairly well-deserved and extremely hilarious.

Raylan was surprised, however, when Geller offered Tim a drink instead. He couldn't imagine ever considering the idea of hosting the person who had put him behind bars, however briefly. He found himself glad that the front of Geller's house was all windows, so he could watch the meeting unfold without hindrance.

He was sure he was in for quite the show.

They talked for a while and Raylan got so bored waiting for something to happen that he got out of his car and brought her bag of belongings with him because he figured he might have to intervene if he wanted this exchange to be as entertaining as he'd hoped.

He was imagining the irritated look on Tim's face when he knocked on the door when he instead dropped the bag, and his hand flew to his holster.

Geller was all but sprinting across the room at Tim, and Raylan was sure she was about to throttle him—or worse—at which point he'd have to step in as a matter of principle.

But just as he took the first few steps and was about to start running up to her door, he watched as she wrapped her arms around Tim's neck in a tight hug. Not a punch or slap in sight.

And then Raylan watched as Tim Gutterson twined his arms around her waist, holding her in what appeared to be a warm and intimate embrace.

"Well, I'll be damned."

Raylan had enjoyed teasing Tim about Sarah Geller. He thought it was fun to point out the fact that the younger man was clearly attracted to her. And after he'd watched them work together during the standoff at the safehouse, Raylan thought it was obvious she harbored some affection for Tim as well.

But Raylan hadn't quite expected to be so right about their entanglement. And it felt good to be right—really, really good.

Raylan's amused smile turned into an expression of genuine shock when Geller leaned back and pulled Tim into what appeared to be a very familiar kiss.

Raylan knew he should look away. Knew he should get back in his car and drive home; deliver Geller's belongings to her another day. He knew this was a private moment he wasn't supposed to be a part of.

But he figured if they'd wanted privacy, they wouldn't be making out in full view of the floor-to-ceiling windows of Geller's living room. Or that she'd at least have installed some curtains.

Raylan was nearly mesmerized by the sight before him, as Tim and Geller tangled passionately with one another, eventually resulting in Tim being pressed up against the far wall of Geller's living room as he discarded his jacket.

What an interesting turn of events, indeed.

Even more remarkable than the obvious sexual attraction between them was the tender way Tim was looking at Geller now, running his hands along her cheeks as he gently and carefully studied her face.

Tim Gutterson didn't just want to fuck Sarah Geller. No, Raylan could see very clearly there was something much more to it than that because he'd never seen Tim look so sincere and unguarded as he did now, gazing fondly down at the woman in front of him.

"Ho-ly shit," Raylan said, and he watched the two lovers snake their way down the short hall toward Geller's bedroom before he leaned back against his car, arms crossed as he processed what he'd just seen.

Raylan knew he should be the better man and pretend like he'd never been here. He knew that a true friend would ignore the intense desire he had to rub his newfound knowledge in Tim's face.

It was a good thing Raylan and Tim weren't exactly pals.

#

When Tim walked out to his car the next morning, he was surprised to find a brown paper bag on the roof. Confused, he pulled it down and peered inside, half-expecting to find some drunkard's forgotten groceries.

What he found instead was much worse. Sarah Geller's possessions, which as far as he knew had been in the custody of the Lexington Marshals' office when Tim had left there the night before, stared back at him from inside the bag.

Someone from the office—his office—had been outside Kathryn's home sometime between last night and this morning. Tim's head whipped around, looking for any sign of one of his co-workers, but finding nothing.

His mind turned over and over, trying to decide which of the available options would be least detrimental to his career and well-being. Rachel probably wouldn't be too bad, even if she was judgmental, and Nelson would just make stupid dad jokes about it; Tim was sure he could buy the older man off with a few painful happy hour excursions if he had to. But Art or Raylan? He wasn't sure which would be worse.

And then he pulled his plaid shirt, still in the ziplock it had been stored in in evidence, out of the bag.

There, written in black sharpie across the plastic was a message:

Didn't want to interrupt. Make sure your girlfriend gets these. Kept the bottle for myself.

Tim read the note a half dozen times, willing his brain to see something else in the taunting black ink.

But it didn't matter how many times he reread it, the words remained exactly the same.

Raylan Givens had seen him with Sarah Geller, and that was definitely the worst possible scenario he could think of.

"Fuck."