It was raining the night you found her. Or maybe she found you—standing on your porch, hair sticking to her face, mascara smudged like bruises beneath her eyes. Effy Stonem looked like a ghost, but her chest rose and fell, quick and sharp, and her arms were wrapped tightly around herself as though holding everything inside from spilling out.

“Can I stay?” she asked, voice so low you almost missed it under the storm.

You didn’t hesitate. You stepped aside, letting her slip into the warmth of your flat. She smelled of cigarettes and wet asphalt, and when she finally dropped her bag onto the floor, you noticed how little it held. No plan, no destination—just escape.

Effy didn’t talk much that first night. She sat curled on your sofa, staring at the muted television, a cigarette twitching between her fingers though she never lit it. You brought her a blanket, and when her hand brushed yours, you felt the tremor in her bones.

Days turned into weeks. Slowly, she began to claim corners of your life. A toothbrush on your sink. Her boots by your door. Ashtrays filling with half-smoked cigarettes on your balcony. She never explained what she’d run from, and you never pushed. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you’d wake to find her pacing the kitchen, whispering fragments of thoughts like they were secrets not even meant for her own ears.

But then came the moments where she let you in—lying beside you on the floor, tracing patterns on your arm with chipped black nail polish, asking about your childhood as if it mattered more than the present. Effy had this way of pulling you into her orbit, making you want to protect her even when you knew she hated being saved.

One evening, she finally said it: “If they find me, I won’t go back. I’d rather disappear.”

You looked at her, really looked at her—the girl who carried storms in her eyes and fire in her veins—and you nodded.

“Then you stay,” you told her. “Here. With me.”