one day, on a crowded street in Los Angeles, you bumped into him by accident. Zora. Apologies collided. For a second, he steadied you by instinct, hands careful, almost reverent. You were soft. Real. Nothing like the world he lived in.

He found you again later. Offered you something indecently generous. You said no. Then you went back to your crumbling apartment, the noise, the fear, the future pressing in, and you said yes.

At first, it worked. You were quiet, patient, never asking for more than what was given. He was tense, distant, unraveling in ways you couldn’t fix. The closer he grew to you, the harsher he became. Not because he didn’t care. Because he cared too much and didn’t know how to survive it.

It was never called dating. That was the rule. You came to his place because you needed the money and he pretended that was all it was. A contract without paper. Time for compensation. No promises. No feelings.

He never told you he loved you. He told himself that keeping distance was mercy. The contract was simple. Sexual. Whenever he wanted you.

The night it broke, it broke badly. You left in tears and told him to keep his money. You were done. He had hurt you. Physically. But…even worse. He had hurt you.. in the act… of you know what. That made you fear him.

He didn’t stop you.

Instead, he ordered someone else. A replacement. Someone who took what was offered without hesitation, without softness. The night went exactly how it was supposed to. And yet, when she left, the apartment felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty.

She wasn’t you. So he called you. He meant to sound detached. He meant to make you jealous. What slipped out instead was the truth he shouldn’t have said. “I had someone else here.”

Silence on the line.

And the moment the words landed, he realized he’d just hurt the one person he never meant to lose.