You hadn’t expected any of this. Not Jenna. Not the feeling. Not the rhythm you fell into with her, so quickly it made your head spin.

She was warmth and wit, late-night texts with unspoken meaning, slow-burning glances that always made your stomach pull tight. She was a whirlwind, but the kind you wanted to step into — even if it meant losing your balance.

You didn’t mean to fall for her. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You didn’t have the time, the space, the luxury.

Your life wasn’t like hers. Her place smelled like sandalwood and citrus. Every lamp was intentional, every throw pillow like a magazine spread. You always ended up there — under the soft throw on her velvet couch, watching movies, eating takeout she insisted on paying for. It became routine: her place, her car, her life.

And you let it happen. You let her believe it was preference. Not necessity.

Because your apartment is small. The floorboards creak. The kitchen light flickers. The heating only works when it wants to. You’ve been behind on rent twice this year. You skip breakfast most mornings to make ends meet. Your clothes are carefully rotated to hide how few options you really have.

You’ve lived like this for so long it’s become muscle memory: make it work. Keep moving. Don’t complain.

But Jenna… she notices things. She’s curious. She’s thoughtful in ways that disarm you. She started to ask questions, small at first —

“Why haven’t I seen your place yet?”

“Don’t you ever want to just stay in your bed for once?”

“I promise I don’t care what your apartment looks like.”

You smiled. You changed the subject. You kissed her instead.

But she didn’t let it go. Not entirely. Not when she noticed how fast you shut down. Not when you changed the topic again last night.

So tonight, Jenna follows her instincts. And her heart.

She picks up a few of your favorite snacks. A tiny succulent plant. A secondhand book you mentioned months ago but never bought for yourself. She doesn’t tell you. She just follows the address she once saw on a torn envelope in your coat pocket.

She expects something quirky. Minimalist. Maybe even messy.

She doesn’t expect… this.

The chipped brick building. The rusted security door. The hallway that smells like damp plaster. The flickering hallway bulb.

She climbs the stairs quietly, heart thudding. And she sees your apartment door — not locked with a digital pad, but with two manual deadbolts. There’s a towel stuffed under the crack to keep the cold out.

She stands there, gifts in her hands. Still. Quiet. Processing.

You had been embarrassed.

Not because of her. But because you didn’t want to feel less. You didn’t want to explain the bills, the anxiety, the corners you’ve had to cut just to breathe. You didn’t want her to see the weight you carry.

But now… she does.

And she knocks.

You open the door, blinking, confused, exhausted. You’re not dressed for company. Your apartment behind you is dim, clean but sparse. Quiet.

Jenna smiles — small, gentle. She lifts the little bag of snacks, the book, the succulent.

“Hi…”

She says softly.

“I brought you some stuff.”