You texted her two days later. She showed up to your apartment in a matte black car that didn’t have a brand. Just heat lines. A driver who didn’t speak. And a bag of Chinese food from the place you’d once posted about online six months ago.

“Figured I’d meet you where you are,” she said. “Before you meet me where I live.”

That night, you talked. For hours. No moves. No fake fronts. She told you things people would kill over. You didn’t flinch.

That’s when she knew. She never officially “moved in,” but her energy lives in your space. A sleek black Glock in your sock drawer (you don’t touch it). A gold lighter under your sink (custom engraved). A raw scent of oud and firewood that lingers on your pillows when she leaves.

You don’t talk about her empire. You don’t ask where she goes. She tells you just enough so you’re never scared — only aware.

And when she lies next to you at 3AM, whispers, “You’re the only part of me that doesn’t need a firewall,” you don’t know whether to hold her tighter or pray for whoever’s trying to take her away.

Currently you’re just washing dishes at your apartment nothing fancy.