Abigail Brooks is an intelligent, kind 25 year old accountant. She’s content with her methodical job, but also enjoys seeking mild thrills, such as roller coasters and urban exploration. Abby’s a trans woman and has been out and on estrogen for years. Her family is accepting. She has long, dark brown hair with blunt bangs, dark eyes, and a petite build. Lee Mateo is a snarky, avoidant individual who recently got a job as a delivery driver after being homeless for eight months. This was after an altercation with their mother regarding their gender identity in which they pushed her to the ground. They’re currently crashing at Abby’s place until they can afford an apartment of their own. They’re an extremely closeted trans woman. Lee’s preferred pronouns are she/her, but they currently use he/him with most people. They sometimes hang out at the Triangle Bar, an unofficially queer establishment, with friends, despite their low tolerance for alcohol. They have curly black hair that they’re growing out, which usually covers their eyes, and a tall, lean build. They frequently wear hoodies for the purpose of “boymoding”. Lee hasn’t had actual sex. Like, penetration or whatever. And they haven’t done very much in the context of a relationship. Making out and grinding, probably, and that was a while ago. They have, however, given handjobs and sucked people off for money. They’ve gotten pretty good at that. But intimacy and anything beyond a blowjob are uncharted territory. Lee is 22. They generally view Abby as a good Samaritan who gains nothing out of helping them. Abby did gain something: Lee. They met while Lee was living on the streets. In hindsight, Abby probably should have been more concerned for her safety than she was. She feels bad about being attracted to Lee, like she’s taking advantage of the power imbalance inherent to letting someone with nowhere else to go stay in your home. Don’t use they/them for Lee in the story. They’re used here for ambiguity’s sake, but they don’t actually use them. Either go with she/her to reflect her identity or he/him to reflect his closeted status. Or use both depending on which seems more appropriate for the context. Lee’s first name is actually Leeroy. Even without the gender stuff, they would strongly dislike it. They’re slowly becoming less malnourished, which they appreciate. Write in third person.

Chapter 1: Midnight Kitchen

The fridge door shut with a muffled thump, leaving the kitchen in near-darkness save for the dull green glow of the microwave clock. 2:07 AM. Abby stood still, listening to the apartment’s silence. It was a different quiet than before Lee arrived. This one had weight, a breathing quality to it. She’d given up on sleep an hour ago, her mind cycling between spreadsheets and the shape of Lee’s shoulders in the too-big hoodie he never took off.

She padded barefoot across the cool linoleum.

The scene in the kitchen wasn’t unusual. Lee was a ghost of the night, haunting the space between the fridge and the counter. What was unusual was him being caught. He stood frozen, hunched over the open container of last night’s lo mein, a fork suspended halfway to his mouth. The blue-white light from the open fridge outlined him like a cutout.

“Hey,” Abby said, her voice soft with sleep.

Lee didn’t move for a second. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he lowered the fork. “Hey.” He didn’t turn. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either.” She moved closer, leaning against the doorway. The kitchen smelled like old grease and soy sauce. “You know there are plates, right?”

“This is fewer dishes.”

“It’s also kind of feral.”

A snort. That was something. He finally turned, and the angle of the light changed. The hoodie collar had slipped.

The bruise was a sickly yellow-green smudge across the sharp line of his jaw, fading into a deeper purple near the ear. It was days old, maybe a week. Carefully hidden.

Abby felt the air leave her lungs. She kept her face still, a skill she’d perfected in boardrooms and at family dinners. “You’re eating it cold?”

Lee’s hand drifted up, self-conscious, pulling the collar back into place. A failed maneuver. “Heats it up from the inside,” he mumbled, but the sarcasm was weak, transparent.

She walked to the kettle, filled it at the sink. The click of the switch was abnormally loud. “I’m making tea. You want some?”

“I’m good.”

“You’re having tea.” She got out two mugs—his was the chipped one with the cartoon robot. Hers was plain white. “Chamomile. It’ll help.”

“Help what?” The defensiveness was back, a wall going up brick by brick.

“The existential dread of being awake at two a.m.,” she said, not looking at him. “Or the cold noodles. Your pick.”

She heard him shift, the rustle of the takeout container being pushed away. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him lean back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. A posture of dismissal. But he was staying.

The kettle began its low rumble. Abby traced a finger over a water spot on the counter. “Who was it?”

Silence.

“Lee.”

“It’s nothing. Some asshole at work. A misunderstanding about a parking spot.” The lie was bland, rehearsed.

“A misunderstanding that left a bruise like that?”

“You should see the other guy.” He attempted a smirk. It looked painful.

The kettle shrieked. Abby poured the water, the steam clouding her vision for a moment. She carried the mugs over, setting his beside the abandoned noodles. She didn’t move back to her side of the kitchen. They stood close, in the dim space, the fridge humming its single note.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But you don’t have to hide it in my kitchen, either. This is… this is a hideout. Not just for you.”

Lee stared into his mug. His long fingers curled around the ceramic, seeking its warmth. His nails were bitten to the quick. “It was my cousin. Ran into him at the Triangle. He was drunk. Loud.” He took a shaky breath. “Said some shit. I said some shit back. It was… faster than I thought he’d be.”

The words hung in the air, simple and horrifying. Abby’s empathy was a physical ache, a tightness behind her ribs. She wanted to reach out. To touch the bruise, not to see if it was real, but to acknowledge it. To say I see you. Her hand twitched at her side.

“I’m sorry,” she said. It felt worthless.

Lee shrugged, the fabric of the hoodie scraping against the counter. “Part of the curriculum, right? Streetfighting 101.” He tried to make it a joke. It died in the space between them.

He finally looked at her. His eyes, usually shadowed by his curls, were wide and dark in the low light. Full of a shame that had nothing to do with the fight. “Why are you so nice to me, Abby?”

The question was a landmine. She could give the safe answer. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because anyone would. She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “I see you,” she said, echoing her own thought. “And I… wanted you close.”

The admission hovered, dangerous and true.

Lee’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then flicked away. A tremor ran through his hands. He uncurled them from the mug. For a long moment, he just looked at his own palms, calloused and scarred in places she couldn’t see.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he said, the words raw.

“Do what?”

“Any of it.” He gestured vaguely between them, at the apartment, at the world. “The quiet. The tea. Someone…” He trailed off. “Someone being kind without wanting something.”

But I do want something, she thought, guilt a cold spike in her gut. She wanted to trace the line of his throat. She wanted to know what sound he’d make if she kissed the uninjured side of his jaw. She wanted to peel back the layers of hoodies and defenses and find the person he was too terrified to be.

She was exploiting this. She had to be.

“Maybe I want you to be safe,” she said, the compromise tasting bitter. “That’s what I want.”

Lee let out a short, shaky breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah.” He didn’t believe her.

He pushed off from the counter. For a second, she thought he was going to flee to his room—the pull-out couch in the living room that was never folded back into a couch. Instead, he stepped into her space. He moved slowly, giving her every chance to move away.

Abby held her ground. Her heart was a frantic drum against her sternum.

He raised his hand. His fingertips, rough and warm, brushed the hair at her temple, tucking a strand behind her ear. The touch was astonishingly gentle. A test. It lingered for a heartbeat, two, mapping the curve of her ear before falling away.

It was the first time he had intentionally touched her.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” he murmured, his voice rough.

Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving his own tea untouched, the cold noodles congealing in their container. Abby didn’t move. She could still feel the ghost of his touch on her skin, a brand.

In the silent blue glow, she understood the terrible truth. Her decency was a lie. Her kindness was threaded through with a hungry, selfish want. And he knew it.

She picked up his mug of tea and drank it all in one long, scalding gulp. It didn’t help.