Abigail Brooks is an intelligent, kind 25 year old accountant. She’s content with her 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, and that was a while ago. They have 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 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 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 Leeroy. They strongly dislike it. They’re slowly becoming less malnourished, which they appreciate. Abby accidentally sees the scars on Lee’s thighs. “Scars” is a strong word for some of them. She doesn’t ask questions apart from whether anything’s infected. She’s concerned, but that’s not something she can fix for them.

Chapter 1: Scars and Silence

The apartment hummed, a low and familiar frequency of refrigerator drone and distant traffic. Abby sat cross-legged on the couch, a warm mountain of clean laundry piled beside her. She folded a towel into a precise rectangle, the terrycloth soft against her fingers. This was her peace: the orderly ritual, the scent of detergent, the soft glow of the single lamp by the armchair casting a pool of warmth in the dim living room.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Lee shuffled out, a ghost of steam following them. They were in boxers and a faded, loose t-shirt, hair a riot of damp black curls, eyes heavy with exhaustion. They moved toward the armchair where their hoodie was draped, movements loose and unguarded in the private dark of the apartment.

Abby’s hands stilled on a folded pillowcase.

The overhead light from the short hallway caught Lee’s legs as they passed through it. Pale lines, some parallel, some intersecting, like a silent map of a brutal geography, marked the skin of their thighs. They were old, faded to silver, but numerous. A history written in scars.

Lee reached the armchair, grabbed the hoodie. They shrugged it on, the fabric swallowing their lean frame, sleeves pulled down over wrists. The act was so routine, so protective. Then they froze. Their head turned slowly, gaze snapping to Abby on the couch.

The air changed. It got very still, and very cold.

Abby didn’t look away. She hadn’t gasped. She just… saw. And in that seeing was a vast, quiet ache. She knew better than to offer pity. Pity was a solvent; it dissolved dignity. She met Lee’s wide, suddenly panicked eyes. Their expression was pure animal fear, cornered and ready to bolt or bite.

“Hey,” Abby said, her voice softer than she intended.

Lee didn’t speak. Their jaw was tight, a muscle flickering.

Abby picked up another towel, ran her thumb over the edge. She kept her eyes on her hands, giving Lee a moment to not be stared at. “I wasn’t snooping. You just walked by.”

“Yeah.” The word was ground out. Lee’s hands were deep in the hoodie pockets, shoulders hunched.

The silence stretched, taut and dangerous. Abby folded the towel. She placed it on the ‘finished’ pile. She took a breath. “Is anything… fresh? Or infected?” She kept her tone clinical, practical. A medical question. A logistics question. Something that could be answered without touching the vast, unspoken thing beneath it.

Lee blinked. The defensive glare faltered, replaced by confusion. They’d braced for revulsion, for questions, for a sermon. Not this. “No,” they muttered, finally. “They’re old.”

“Okay.” Abby nodded. “Just… if anything ever looks red or feels hot, tell me. I have antiseptic cream. Don’t let it get septic.”

A harsh, quiet sound escaped Lee. It was almost a laugh, but soaked in bitterness. “Septic. Right.” They sank into the armchair, becoming a shape of grey fabric and shadow. They pulled their knees up, hiding themselves completely. “Aren’t you gonna ask?”

“Do you want me to ask?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t.” Abby smoothed the last towel. “Some things aren’t for fixing. They’re just… things that happened.”

Lee stared at her from the depths of the chair. The fear was receding, but something more complicated was rising in its place—a wary, baffled scrutiny. “You’re weird, Abby.”

“So I’ve been told.” She offered a small, tentative smile.

They sat in the quiet. The fridge cycled off. A siren warbled somewhere streets away, fading. The normal sounds of the night reasserted themselves.

“I used to box,” Lee said suddenly, the words fast, like they’d been shoved out. “MMA stuff. Before. Got cut up on the mats sometimes. From the equipment.” The lie was obvious, clumsy. A offered cover story, a fig leaf for them both.

Abby accepted it with a gentle nod. “Must’ve been rough.”

“Yeah.” Lee’s voice was hollow. They picked at a thread on the cuff of their hoodie. “The hoodie’s not for that. It’s just… it’s cold in here.”

“I can turn the heat up.”

“Don’t.”

Another silence, but softer now. The initial shock had dissipated, leaving a raw, tender space between them. Abby finished the laundry. She stacked the neat piles on the coffee table—hers, hers, and the small one that was Lee’s.

“I’m going to bed,” she said, standing. “Don’t stay up all night on your phone. The delivery shift starts early.”

“I know.” Lee’s voice was muffled.

Abby paused. She wanted to say something else, something that bridged the gap. But words were too blunt. They would smash the fragile understanding they’d just built. So she just said, “Goodnight, Lee.”

“’Night.”

She walked to her bedroom door, hand on the cool knob. She glanced back. Lee was still a curled form in the chair, face turned toward the dark window, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of their phone screen. The hoodie was zipped all the way up, a fortress.

Abby closed her door. She leaned against it, listening to the silent apartment. Her heart ached, a dull, persistent throb. She thought of the scars, not with horror, but with a crushing sadness. She thought of Lee offering that pathetic, transparent lie about boxing mats. A gift, in its own awful way. A signal that they weren’t ready, but they trusted her enough to try a lie.

She changed for bed, the soft cotton of her pajamas a comfort. She brushed her teeth, staring at her own reflection—the blunt bangs, the dark eyes that looked tired. She had offered a room out of kindness, yes. But the guilt was a snake in her stomach, coiling tight. She was attracted to them. To their sharpness, their wit, the vulnerable person hiding beneath all those defensive layers. And that felt monstrous. She had the power here: the lease, the food, the stability. To want anything from Lee in return felt like exploitation.

In the living room, Lee stared at the black screen of their phone. Their heart was finally slowing from its frantic hammer. They’d been seen. The worst had happened. And Abby… hadn’t flinched. Hadn’t preached. Had just asked about infection.

Some things aren’t for fixing.

They’re just things that happened.

The words echoed. No one had ever said anything like that. Their mother’s voice, shrill and broken, screamed different words. A phase. A sin. Something to be fixed.

Lee’s fingers crept to their thigh, pressing through the hoodie and sweatpants they’d pulled on, feeling the raised lines beneath. A record of failure. Of not being able to endure the world as it was. Of not being able to become who she was.

And now Abby had seen it. The evidence. And hadn’t looked away.

Lee slumped further into the chair, exhaustion hitting them like a wave. They were so tired of running, of hiding. The apartment was warm. It was quiet. For the first time in eight months, the quiet felt like it might not be waiting to attack. It felt like it might just be quiet.

They closed their eyes. The image of Abby’s face, calm and unafraid in the lamplight, stayed behind their lids. It was a dangerous thing to hold onto. But for tonight, in the dark, they held it anyway.