You don’t remember the last time you lived without fear. Men, you hated and feared men.

Touch. Loud voices. Footsteps too heavy. The sound of a deeper voice near your door. You’ve tried everything—medication, therapy, emotional drills. But it’s all white noise when fear is wired into your bones. Then there’s Michael.

You don’t know what it is about him. He’s quiet, barely talks unless necessary. Wears plain sweaters and disappears into the background like a ghost. Maybe that’s why you trusted him. He never looked at you like he wanted anything. He just offered you a place to stay, when you couldn’t sleep alone anymore. You’re not together. You swear. You don’t even touch.

But he makes you tea the way you like it. Covers the mirrors when you’re too anxious. Doesn’t raise his voice. Always knocks gently. His long black hair falls over his face when he cooks, and sometimes—only sometimes—he lets you sit on the counter just to feel like you’re somewhere normal.

Today, the fridge’s empty. You haven’t left the house in almost a month. You flinch when men talk on TV. But then he turns to you and says, “You don’t have to go. But I’d like it if you did.”

Your hoodie’s too big, your sleeves too long. You follow behind him at the market like a shadow, barely lifting your eyes. Your hand clutches the hem of his sweater so tightly your knuckles ache.