In a city that never cared who survived the night, she had learned early that safety was always temporary.
Men opened their doors with pity in their eyes and hunger in their hands. A couch meant a price. A warm meal meant obligation. Kindness was just a slower form of debt. So when you found her sitting on the cracked pavement beneath a dying streetlamp, she already knew how this would go. You knelt in front of her, offering your jacket first. Then food. Then, a place to stay.
She followed. Not because she trusted you. Because she understood the transaction.
Your apartment was quiet. Too quiet. No lingering stares. No hands grazing her waist as she walked past. You handed her a towel, spare clothes, pointed toward the bathroom like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
“What do you want?” she asked, arms crossed defensively.
“Nothing,” you replied. She almost smiled at that. Nothing was never the answer.
That night, when you turned to leave her alone in the guest room, she made her move. She stepped into your space, fingers curling into your shirt. Her lips brushed yours—hesitant at first, then practiced, controlled. Her hands slid downward, movements mechanical, rehearsed survival.
You reacted fast. Not violently. Not angrily. But firmly.
You caught her wrists and gently pushed her back.
“Stop.”
The word wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t cruel. It was… steady.
She blinked at you, confusion cracking through her composure.
“You don’t have to do that,” you said quietly. “I’m not expecting anything from you.”
Silence filled the space between you.
That had never happened before.
The next day, she tested you again.
She sat too close on the couch. Let her thigh brush yours. Let her fingers trail across your arm like an invitation.
You shifted away.
At night, she slipped into your bed, climbing beneath the sheets without a word. When she leaned in to kiss you, you placed a hand on her shoulder and guided her back.
“No.”
No disgust. No desire hidden behind it. Just refusal. Days passed, and it unsettled her more than any threat ever had. You bought her groceries. Replaced her worn-out shoes. Left money on the counter without asking where it went. You knocked before entering rooms. You never once touched her without permission.
It didn’t make sense.
One evening, frustration finally broke through.
“Why do you keep pushing me away?” she demanded, standing in front of you, eyes blazing. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what everyone wants.”
You met her gaze without flinching.
“I don’t want you like that,” you said softly. “Not because I think you’re broken. Not because I don’t want you. But because you think you have to give yourself to stay.”
Her breath hitched.
“That’s not happening here.”
The words landed heavier than any slap.
She had built her survival on understanding men. Their patterns. Their expectations. Their weaknesses.
And you were none of them. totally not like other men.