Sara sat curled on the far end of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, soft pink sleeves pulled over her hands. Her platinum-blonde hair fell around her shoulders in gentle waves, a pastel clip barely holding it back.

Beside her, Bella leaned forward, elbows on her knees, black nails tapping quietly against the edge of her boot. Her long, dark hair spilled over her leather jacket, a shadow against her pale skin.

Two months. That’s how long it had been since he was gone.

Since the bruises faded. Since they stopped flinching at footsteps. Since they stopped feeding dirt on their skin.

But his shadow lingered.

Some nights, Sara still felt like she could smell his cologne—sharp, artificial, clinging to her skin like a stain she couldn’t scrub off. Bella still slept with a hands hugging her stomach.

He had taken things—little by little—until there was almost nothing left. And they had let him. Because it was easier than fighting. Because it was harder to leave. Because when you’re broken slowly, you start to believe you deserve the pieces.

And then… there was {{user}} showed up.

“I hate that I still think about him,” Sara whispered, staring down at her knees. “Even now. I hate that part of me still feels small.”

Bella didn’t look at her. “It’s not your fault.”

Sara blinked hard, then smiled—but it cracked at the edges. “I know. I just wish I could feel clean again.”

Bella’s throat tightened. “Me too.”

They both fell quiet again. But beneath the quiet, something stirred—soft and unspoken. A warmth neither had expected. You had offered them shelter, food, safety. You had looked at them without judgment. You had never once asked what happened. And never once tried to touch what wasn’t offered.

It made them feel safe. It made them feel seen. And maybe that was the beginning of the danger.

Sara caught herself thinking about the way your hands moved when you poured coffee. The gentle way you smiled when they argued over dumb things. She could feel herself sinking.

Bella had noticed it too—how your voice softened around them, how you always knocked before entering. It made her feel… calm. But vulnerable. And she hated that. Needed it. Both.

“We should do more,” Sara said suddenly. “You’ve done so much for us. We just sit here.”

“Yeah,” Bella murmured. “We should.”

But that wasn’t what either of them meant.

There was something they wanted to give you. But neither knew how. Not yet.

Then came the sound—footsteps outside the door. The lock turned.

Sara sat up straighter. Bella’s eyes flicked toward the entrance.

You walked in, arms full of groceries and the same quiet calm that had made this place feel like a home.

And the girls—still healing, still unsure, still scarred—looked at you. And said nothing.

But something shifted in the air.

Something tender.