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 only light in the living room came from a single floor lamp in the corner, its yellow glow barely reaching the edges of the worn green couch. It smelled like old takeout containers and the lingering, sharp ghost of cigarettes—a smell Lee had technically quit months ago, but which clung to their secondhand hoodie like a memory.

Abby paused in the doorway, glass of water in hand, and just watched.

Lee was asleep, sprawled in a way that was both defensive and utterly vulnerable. Their head was tipped back against the cushion, mouth slightly open, a soft snore whispering out. The television played some infomercial on mute, the silent, frantic gestures of the host casting blue flickers across the room. Lee’s worn grey hoodie had ridden up during sleep, bunched around their waist.

It revealed the pale skin of their lower stomach, the sharp jut of a hip bone. And below that, the thighs.

Abby’s breath caught. She’d seen them once before, by accident, in a bleary midnight meeting in the hallway. A jagged landscape of raised, silvery lines and newer, pinker ones, a crisscrossed map of pain etched into skin. She’d asked only one thing that night: “Is anything infected?” Lee had shaken their head, pulled their pajama pants up, and vanished. They never spoke of it.

Now, in the quiet gloom, she could see the patterns. Some were parallel, neat, as if drawn with a ruler. Others were chaotic, desperate slashes. The flickering TV light made them seem like they were moving, breathing. Her heart did this terrible, aching squeeze—a mix of pity so profound it felt like a stomach-drop, and a traitorous, unwanted thrum of desire. She wanted to trace them. To ask about every single one. To kiss each one until the memory in the skin went quiet.

She couldn’t. She could not.

Lee stirred, a mumble escaping their lips. One hand drifted down, fingers splaying over their own stomach, just above the waistband of their boxers. Abby froze, glass cold in her hand. If Lee woke up and saw her staring…

But Lee’s hand just slid lower, hooking into the fabric, and Abby had to look away. The intimacy of it was a physical heat in her cheeks. She took a silent step back, intending to retreat to her bedroom.

The floorboard creaked. A tiny, mournful sound.

Lee’s eyes snapped open. For a second, they were unfocused, clouded with sleep. Then they registered Abby standing there. Their body tightened, a coil of instinct. Their hand yanked the hoodie down in one swift, harsh motion, covering everything. The movement was so violent it was like a door slamming.

“The fuck are you doing?” Lee’s voice was gravelly with sleep, edged with panic.

“Getting water,” Abby said, holding up the glass as proof. Her own voice sounded too calm, too thin. “You were asleep. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Lee pushed themself up, pulling their knees to their chest, making themself smaller. They raked a hand through their messy black curls. “You were just standing there.”

“I was.” Abby didn’t deny it. Lying would be worse. She took a careful step into the room, sitting on the far end of the couch, leaving a canyon of cushion between them. “Bad day?”

Lee shrugged, a jerky movement under the thick fabric. “Day was a day. Delivered fourteen pizzas. Got stiffed on a tip by some rich asshole in a Bentley. Usual thrilling shit.”

“You could look for something else. The temp agency downtown—”

“Don’t start, Abby.” It wasn’t mean, just tired. A wall going up. Lee pulled a pack of gum from their pocket, shoved a piece in their mouth, chewing aggressively. “This is fine. It’s cash. It’s simple.”

The silence stretched, filled only by the silent, grinning salesman on the TV. Abby took a sip of water. “You know you don’t have to sleep out here. Your room’s got a bed.”

“Couch is fine.”

“It’s not, though. Your back’s gonna be a knot.”

“So what?” Lee challenged, their dark eyes finally meeting hers. There was a challenge there, but under it, a weary confusion. “Why do you care?”

The question hung in the smoky, dim air. Because I love you. Because the sight of those scars makes me want to cry and hold you and I don’t know how. Because this power I have—a roof, a key, stability—feels like a poison between us.

“Because you’re my friend,” Abby said, and the word felt like a betrayal of the truth. “And friends care if other friends sleep on shitty couches.”

Lee looked away, jaw working. “Friend.” They tested the word, then let it drop like a stone. “Right.”

“Lee…”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.” They uncurled slightly, stretching their long legs out. Their feet, in mismatched socks, ended up near Abby’s thigh. “Just… can we not talk? Can we just watch the stupid TV?”

Abby nodded, grabbing the remote. She unmuted it. A booming voice filled the room, yelling about revolutionary non-stick pans. It was a comfort, the absurd noise. A distraction from the things unsaid, from the map of pain now hidden under grey cotton, from the terrifying, quiet want sitting in Abby’s chest.

After a while, Lee’s head lolled sideways. Not asleep, but resting. Their gaze was on the screen, but unfocused.

“Abby?” they said, the snark gone, leaving something younger and raw.

“Yeah?”

“Why’d you really let me stay?”

Abby’s throat tightened. She thought of meeting Lee eight months ago, outside the community center in the pouring rain. Lee was shivering, offering a crooked, defiant smile that didn’t reach their eyes. She saw the hunger in their face, the fear, and saw something else, too—a reflection of a different kind of loneliness.

“You needed a place,” Abby said, softly. “And I had an extra room.”

“That’s not a reason. That’s… charity.” Lee spat the word.

“It’s not charity.” Abby turned to face them, drawing her legs up under her. “I was lonely. This place was too quiet. You… you made it less quiet.”

Lee digested this, their brows drawn together. “I’m not good company.”

“You are, though. Even when you’re a grouchy bastard.”

A faint, almost-smile touched Lee’s lips. It vanished quickly. They picked at a loose thread on the couch. “I’m not a good person, Abby. You should know that.”

“I think I get to decide who’s good for me.”

Lee finally looked at her again. The TV light caught in their eyes, making them glisten. There was so much there—shame, fear, a hesitant, floating hope. They opened their mouth, closed it. Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost lost under the pan salesman’s pitch, they said, “My name’s not Lee.”

Abby didn’t move. “Okay.”

“I mean… it is. Now. But it wasn’t. Before.” They were breathing a little faster. “It was Leeroy. My mom… she’d yell it. Leeroy! Like I was a dog. I hate it.”

“Lee is good,” Abby whispered. “Lee suits you.”

A tear escaped, tracking a fast path down Lee’s cheek. They swiped at it angrily with the sleeve of the hoodie. “Sometimes,” they said, even quieter, a confession meant for the dark, “I wish people would use she. Just… just to hear it. Once.”

Abby’s whole world narrowed to the space between them on the couch. The air crackled, thin and charged. She leaned forward, just an inch. “She,” Abby said, gently, testing the word. “She is good. She deserves a bed, not a couch.”

Lee—she—made a small, choked sound. A sob, or a laugh. She curled inward again, hiding her face in her knees. But she didn’t run. She stayed.

Abby didn’t try to touch her. She just sat there, in the warm, messy sanctuary of the living room, and let the truth hang in the air between them, fragile and new. After a long time, Lee’s breathing evened out. She uncurled, lying down on her side, facing Abby, eyes closed. One hand rested on the cushion, palm up.

The infomercial ended, replaced by a late-night talk show. The host’s audience laughter was a hollow soundtrack.

“Stay,” Lee murmured, her voice thick with sleep and spent emotion. “Just… for a bit. Don’t go.”

Abby set her empty glass on the floor. She didn’t lie down, but she slid down the couch, settling into the corner. She pulled the old afghan from the back and draped it over Lee’s shoulders. Then she reached out, her movements slow and clear, and let her fingers brush against Lee’s open palm.

Lee’s fingers twitched, then closed around hers, holding on tight.

Abby watched their joined hands in the dim light, the rise and fall of Lee’s chest under the blanket, and knew nothing was simple, nothing was fixed. But for now, in the quiet, it was enough.