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. 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 actually Leeroy. They strongly dislike it. They’re slowly becoming less malnourished, which they appreciate. One night, Abby goes to the Triangle with Lee. After a drink or two, they use a word Abby recognizes. “You’re not a ‘hon’. And get off 4chan.”

Chapter 1: The Threshold of Trust

The key clicked in the lock at 7:18 AM.

Abby heard it from the kitchen, where she was leaning against the counter, waiting for the coffee to brew. She’d been up since six, her methodical Saturday morning cleaning routine completed in half the usual time. The gurgle and drip of the machine was the only sound until the door swung open and Lee slid inside.

He moved like a shadow dislodged from a brighter place, all silent limbs and practiced avoidance. The smell hit her first—cigarette smoke, yes, but underneath it, the stale, sour scent of spilled beer and a bar’s worth of crushed dreams. He didn’t look at her, just toe-heeled his sneakers off by the door without untying them. His curly black hair was a wild cloud, still damp at the ends from the morning drizzle outside, obscuring his eyes.

“You’re back,” Abby said. Her voice was calm, a flat stone dropped into the tense quiet.

Lee flinched, a minute twitch of his shoulder beneath the worn grey hoodie. “No shit.” His voice was gravel, shredded from smoke and shouting over music. He finally glanced toward the kitchen, his gaze skating over her and landing somewhere near the microwave. “Figured you’d be asleep.”

“I’m an accountant. I don’t sleep in on Saturdays. It throws off my system.”

A grunt. He padded into the living area, which was just an extension of the kitchen nook, and stood there, awkward as a misplaced piece of furniture. He was tall, all lean angles, and in the clean morning light spearing through her window, he looked younger than twenty-two. And exhausted.

Abby turned, pulled down two mugs from the cupboard. The ceramic was smooth, warm beige. One had a small chip on the handle. The other had her initials, AB, scratched into the rim by a well-meaning but clumsy ex. She filled both to the brim with the dark roast.

“Sit,” she said, not a question.

Lee hovered for three more seconds, a debate playing out in the tight line of his jaw. Defeat won. He slumped into the chair where his hoodie from two days ago was still draped, the movement causing the scents of unwashed cotton and Lee to rise briefly. Abby placed the chipped mug in front of him and took the stool opposite, cradling her own.

The silence stretched, filled by the distant hum of city traffic seven floors down. Lee stared into his coffee as if it held a verdict.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he muttered, not looking up. His finger traced the chip in the handle.

“I know,” Abby said. She took a sip. It was hot, bitter. Perfect.

He finally looked at her then, dark eyes peering through the curtain of his hair. They were bloodshot. “So why do you?”

“Because you need coffee. And I made too much.”

“That’s not what I mean, Abby.”

“I know what you mean.” She held his gaze. Hers was steady, dark, framed by her blunt-cut bangs. She saw the defiance in his, and under that, a cavernous fear. “You mean why did I let you crash on my couch that first night. Why do I let you keep your spare key. Why am I not charging you rent when my lease explicitly forbids long-term guests.” She listed it all off like a column of figures. “The answer’s the same. Because I want to.”

Lee shook his head, a short, frustrated jerk. “Nothing’s free. Not in my experience.”

“Then your experience has been shitty.”

A harsh, surprised laugh escaped him. It was brittle. “Yeah. You could say that.” He wrapped both hands around the mug, probably for the warmth. His knuckles were scraped. “Triangle was wild last night. Jamie was dealing with some family crap, so we did shots. A lot of them.”

“I can tell.” Abby’s tone wasn’t accusatory. Just factual.

“I’m not good at it. Drinking. I’m a cheap date.” He attempted a smirk. It faltered and died. “Makes things easier, sometimes. Forgetting.”

Abby understood the thrill of controlled danger, the calculated risk of a roller coaster’s peak. This was different. This was watching someone play Russian roulette with a bottle of well tequila. “And did you? Forget?”

Lee’s face shut down, the fragile openness sealing over. “For a few hours.” He took a gulp of coffee, winced at the heat. “Made some cash. Gave a guy a handjob behind the dumpsters. Forty bucks.” The words were bullets, fired to wound—maybe himself, maybe her.

The air in the kitchen tightened. Abby didn’t look away. She felt a twist in her gut, a complex knot of pity and anger and something else she refused to name. She methodically smoothed a non-existent wrinkle on her sweatpants.

“That’s not a judgment, Lee. It’s a fact. You did what you felt you had to do.”

“You’re not disgusted?” The question was barely audible.

“I’m sad,” she corrected, her voice soft. “And I’m angry at a world that makes that feel like your best option. There’s a difference.”

He studied her, suspicion and a desperate, hungry hope warring in his expression. He looked like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the price of her kindness to be unveiled. “Most people… they want something. Especially if they’re being… nice.”

Abby understood the subtext. She’d heard it before, in different forms. The assumption of transaction. She leaned forward slightly, just enough to close some of the space between them. “I want you to be safe. I want you to drink some water after that coffee. I want you to take a shower—you smell like an ashtray fell into a vat of cheap vodka.” A tiny, real smile touched her lips. “That’s the invoice. Can you handle that?”

Lee stared. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The defensiveness seemed to leak out of him, leaving only a profound, bewildered exhaustion. “Yeah. I can… I can handle that.”

“Good.”

He drank more coffee. The silence this time was less charged, almost comfortable. His eyes drifted around her small, orderly kitchen, landing on the banana peel by the sink, the empty peanut butter jar she’d forgotten to toss. Signs of life. Shared, mundane life.

“Your couch,” he said abruptly. “It’s fuckin’ uncomfortable. My back is killing me.”

“It’s a sofa bed. You could pull it out.”

“Too much work.”

“Then stop being a baby about it.”

Another flash of that almost-smile. He ran a hand through his riotous hair, pushing it back. For a second, his face was fully visible—the sharp line of his cheekbone, the soft uncertainty of his mouth. He was, Abby thought with a clarity that startled her, painfully beautiful. The attraction was a quiet, persistent hum under her breastbone, complicated and worrisome. She was his shelter. That made it feel like a potential betrayal.

Lee’s phone buzzed on the table, a violent rattle against the wood. He glanced at the screen and his whole body went rigid. The color drained from his face.

Abby didn’t ask. She just watched.

He rejected the call, his thumb jamming down on the screen. “No one,” he said, too quickly.

“Okay.”

“It’s no one.”

“I believe you.”

He stood up so suddenly the chair legs screeched. “I’m gonna… shower. Like you said.” He was already moving, a tall, nervous column of anxiety.

“Lee.”

He stopped, didn’t turn.

“There’s a clean towel on the rack. The hot water takes a minute. Don’t rush.”

He gave a stiff nod and disappeared down the short hall. The bathroom door clicked shut. A moment later, the pipes in the wall groaned, and the rush of water began.

Abby let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She collected the mugs, washed them slowly under hot water. She picked up his discarded hoodie from the chair. It was heavy, damp at the cuffs. She held it for a moment, then folded it neatly and placed it on the arm of the couch he refused to unfold.

In the bathroom, under the drumming water, Lee pressed his forehead to the cool tiles. He replayed the phone call—Mom—and then he replayed Abby’s face. Not disgusted. Sad. He didn’t know what to do with that. The steam rose, fogging the mirror he refused to look into. On the hook beside the shower, he saw the towel, fluffy and clean. Next to it, hanging from a knob, was one of Abby’s sweaters, a soft, oversized cashmere thing in a shade of deep burgundy.

He stared at it, water sluicing down his back. An image flashed, unbidden: pulling it on, drowning in its softness, in a smell that was just clean and Abby. The want was so acute it was a physical pain in his chest, sharper than any hangover.

He looked away, fast, and reached for the generic, white bar of soap.