The smell of coffee drifted through the small apartment before Lucy even opened her eyes.
For a moment, she thought she was dreaming — that she was back home, and her mother had decided to be kind for once. But the sheets were soft, not rough and faded. There was no shouting from another room, no sound of bottles clinking. Only quiet. Gentle, golden quiet.

Her eyelids fluttered open. Morning light poured through the curtains, spilling across the white walls like melted honey. A grey hoodie hung neatly on a chair — Peter’s. She traced the folded edges with her gaze, a small smile forming before she realized she was smiling at all.

Her chest tightened.

She wasn’t supposed to feel safe here. She wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

Then, a soft knock at the door.

“Lucy? You awake?”
His voice. Calm, deep, and too kind.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I—I think so.”

The door opened just enough for Peter to peek in. He held a steaming mug in one hand, and for some reason, seeing him framed by the light made him look almost unreal — like a painting she’d never be able to afford.

“Coffee. Or tea, if you prefer,” he said, stepping inside. “I wasn’t sure.”

She sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. “Coffee’s fine.”

He walked over, set the mug on the bedside table, and sat on the edge of the chair across from her. His eyes lingered on her face a little too long — not in a way that made her afraid, but enough to make her heartbeat stumble.

“Do you always help strangers like this?” she asked, blowing gently on the coffee.

He tilted his head. “Only when they look like they need saving.”

Lucy blinked. The words shouldn’t have sounded comforting, but somehow they did.
“Maybe I don’t deserve saving,” she muttered.

Peter leaned forward. “Everyone deserves it. Even when they don’t believe it.”

Silence stretched between them. The sound of the rain had faded overnight, replaced by faint city noises — traffic, the bark of a dog, someone laughing in the distance. It felt like a new world she didn’t know how to live in yet.

She finally took a sip. It was bitter, but warm.
“So… what happens now?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can’t exactly go back. And I don’t have anywhere to—”

“Then stay here,” he interrupted softly.

Lucy’s eyes widened. “I can’t do that. I’ll find a place, or—”

“Lucy.” His voice had changed — firmer now, carrying something underneath it she couldn’t name. “You’re safe here. That’s all you need to think about.”

The way he said it made it sound less like an offer and more like a decision already made.

She hesitated. Every instinct told her not to trust him completely — not yet. But she’d learned that sometimes surviving meant trusting the wrong people for just long enough to get to the next sunrise.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Just for a few days.”

Peter smiled, slow and quiet. “Good.”

He stood and reached for his hoodie, slipping it on before heading toward the door. “There’s food in the kitchen. And if you need anything, I’ll be downstairs. Don’t open for anyone else.”

“Why would anyone—?”

“Just don’t,” he said, still smiling, but his eyes didn’t match the curve of his lips. Then he was gone, leaving only the faint scent of rain and coffee behind.

Lucy ate toast she didn’t remember making. She sat by the window, watching people walk by — people who didn’t look scared or small. She envied how easy their smiles seemed. She wondered if Peter ever smiled like that before he met her.

Her mind wandered back to last night — the way he’d looked at her when she said her name. There had been something strange in his eyes then too, like recognition.

She shook the thought away. I’m overthinking. He’s just… nice. That’s all.

Hours passed quietly. She showered, folded the blanket she’d used, even cleaned the small mess she’d made on the counter. It felt good to have control over something, even if it was just a few dishes.

By the time Peter returned, the afternoon sun had turned the apartment gold.
He looked surprised to see her standing by the door, barefoot, hair damp, wearing one of his oversized shirts. “You look different,” he said, voice unreadable.

Lucy smiled faintly. “I cleaned up.”

He nodded, eyes traveling over her for a second longer than comfort allowed. “You didn’t have to. But… thank you.”

“Did you—uh—find work? Or something?” she asked quickly, trying to change the topic.

He laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Something like that.”

When she tilted her head questioningly, he added, “You’ll know when you need to.”

That should’ve made her uneasy. It didn’t. Instead, his mystery felt… magnetic.

She didn’t realize until much later that it was also a trap.

That night, Lucy slept more peacefully than she had in years. But outside, Peter stood on the balcony, his phone glowing faintly in his hand.

A message flashed on the screen:
“Found her.”

He typed back slowly:
“She doesn’t remember a thing.”

Then he looked up at the sky — same one she’d wished on countless times — and whispered something only the stars could hear.