The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the smell.

  It was different here.

  Not sterile like my old house. Not cold like the places I usually found myself in.

  Here, it smelled like rainwater, cheap instant noodles, and something warm I couldn’t name.

  I stayed still under the covers for a while, just listening.

  I could hear the faint hum of the city outside the cracked window. A distant car horn. The low murmur of a TV from a neighbor’s room.

  And somewhere closer — the soft breathing of Haider, sleeping on the floor.

  My chest ached, but not in the way it usually did.

  It was a different kind of ache.

  A quieter one.

  A softer one.

  I closed my eyes again, but not to sleep.

  Memories clawed their way back into me.

  Home.

  If I could even call it that.

  Every time I thought of it, I pictured polished floors and silent dinners.

  Picture frames with smiles that weren’t real.

  Rooms too big for the small amount of love inside them.

  "You were supposed to be a boy," my father’s voice echoed in my mind.

  "You ruined everything."

  No matter how well I did, no matter how perfectly I smiled, dressed, acted —

  It was never enough.

  I wasn’t enough.

  I curled tighter under the blanket, hugging my knees to my chest.

  I remembered how it felt yesterday.

  Sitting on that bench, soaked to the bone, feeling like the rain was trying to wash me away too.

  Feeling like... maybe if I sat there long enough, the world would forget I existed.

  And then —

  him...

  I remembered the way he stopped mid-sentence when he tried to speak to me.

  How his eyes met mine — and everything around us went still.

  It wasn’t just the rain that paused.

  It was something deeper.

  The heartbeat skipped a beat.

  When our eyes locked, I felt it too — that strange pull, like we were two pages from the same torn book finally brushing edges again.

  For a second, I thought I was dreaming.

  Because no one had ever looked at me like that before.

  Like I was real. Like I mattered.

  Then i thought.

  We were meant to meet.

  -----------------

  The bed creaked softly as I sat up.

  The room was dim, lit only by a faint stripe of gray morning light leaking through the window.

  I pulled Haider’s oversized hoodie tighter around me. It still smelled a little like him — soap and rain.

  Down on the floor, he was curled up under a thin blanket, one arm thrown carelessly over his face.

  His hair was messy, sticking up in every direction.

  I smiled without meaning to.

  He looked so peaceful.

  So human.

  So heartbreakingly kind.

  I slipped quietly off the bed, careful not to wake him.

  My bare feet touched the cold floor and I winced, tiptoeing toward the little kitchen.

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  I didn’t know how to do much.

  Back home, I was taught etiquette, posture, how to smile at business parties — but no one taught me how to make coffee.

  Still, I wanted to try.

  I wanted to do something for him.

  Something real.

  I rummaged through the cabinets, finding a battered kettle and a jar of instant coffee.

  It wasn’t much, but it felt like building a bridge between me and him, plank by plank.

  As the water boiled, I glanced back toward him.

  He stirred a little, mumbling something under his breath.

  I bit my lip, holding back a laugh.

  It was strange.

  Strange how easily this tiny apartment, with its peeling wallpaper and flickering lights, felt more like home than the giant house I grew up in.

  Maybe it wasn’t about the walls.

  Maybe it was about who you shared them with.

  The kettle whistled, and I hurried to pour the water into two chipped mugs.

  The smell of cheap coffee filled the air, cozy and sharp.

  I placed one mug on the floor beside Haider carefully.

  Then I sat cross-legged nearby, cradling my own mug between my hands for warmth.

  A few moments later, he stirred again — and slowly, groggily, lifted his head.

  He blinked at me, confused and sleepy.

  "...Morning," I said, smiling softly.

  He squinted at me, then at the coffee.

  "For me?" he croaked, voice thick with sleep.

  I nodded.

  He sat up with a groan, rubbing his eyes, and took the mug.

  "You’re a lifesaver," he muttered, taking a sip and immediately wincing.

  "Okay, maybe not a good lifesaver," he teased.

  I gasped, pretending to be offended.

  "You said no judging!" I reminded him.

  He chuckled, the sound low and rough from sleep.

  "I did. I did," he admitted, raising one hand in mock surrender. "This is... amazing coffee. Five-star hotel stuff."

  I narrowed my eyes suspiciously, but couldn't help smiling.

  We sat there like that for a while.

  Two people, wrapped in oversized clothes and cheap coffee, watching the gray morning unfold outside.

  He told me about his college classes.

  I told him little things — about books I liked, movies I wasn’t allowed to watch but secretly did.

  He listened.

  Really listened.

  And when he laughed at something I said — a real, bright laugh — it felt like the rain inside my chest finally began to dry.

  At some point, he stretched his arms overhead and said, "Alright. First order of business — getting you real clothes."

  I blinked.

  "I’m fine," I said quickly. "This is comfortable."

  He gave me a look.

  "You can’t live in my old hoodie forever."

  "But it's cozy," I mumbled, hugging myself.

  He laughed again, standing up and ruffling my hair in a way that made my heart trip over itself.

  "Still," he said. "We’re going shopping later. My treat."

  I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off with a grin.

  "No take-backs."

  And just like that, it was decided.

  Maybe I didn’t have a real family.

  Maybe I didn’t have a big house or a fancy car or the things my parents thought mattered.

  But I had this.

  This tiny, messy apartment.

  This boy with sleepy eyes and a warm smile.

  And somehow —

  That felt more valuable than anything I had ever been given before.

  ---------------------------

  It still felt strange, waking up and seeing her here.

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor in my oversized hoodie, cradling a chipped mug like it was the most precious thing in the world.

  She looked so small.

  So breakable.

  And yet, when she smiled at me — it was like the whole world outside the window didn’t matter anymore.

  I forced myself to act normal.

  Like this was something I was used to.

  Like my heart wasn’t hammering in my chest just from the way she tilted her head when she listened.

  After we finished the sad excuse for coffee, I stood up and stretched, pretending to be casual.

  “We should get you some real clothes,” I said, trying not to sound too desperate.

  She immediately shook her head, hugging the hoodie tighter around herself like a shield.

  "It’s cozy," she mumbled.

  God help me.

  She looked so ridiculously adorable I almost lost it right there.

  Still —

  I wasn’t about to let her keep living in just that.

  I smiled and ruffled her hair again, just to see her scrunch up her nose.

  "No take-backs," I said. "Get ready. We're going shopping."

  It took some convincing — a lot of convincing — before she finally agreed.

  Mostly, she just sat on the bed, fidgeting nervously with the sleeves of the hoodie while I threw on the cleanest clothes I could find.

  "Where are we going?" she asked quietly.

  "Nowhere fancy," I said, grabbing my wallet. "There's a small market nearby. Good enough for now."

  She nodded, but I could tell she was nervous.

  I didn’t blame her.

  I still didn’t know exactly what had happened in her house, but...

  the way she looked at the door, like it might bite her if she got too close, told me enough.

  We stepped out into the hallway together.

  The door creaked shut behind us with a metallic clang.

  The apartment building was as depressing as ever — peeling paint, busted light fixtures, the lingering smell of someone's burnt dinner from the night before.

  I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye.

  She was hugging her arms around herself, her steps small and cautious.

  I slowed down without thinking, matching her pace.

  No rushing.

  No pushing.

  We were doing this together.

  The walk to the market wasn’t long, maybe fifteen minutes.

  The city was alive in that half-chaotic, half-lazy way it always was on Sunday mornings.

  Vendors yelling over each other. Cars honking at pedestrians who didn’t care.

  Someone’s portable speaker blasting a terrible remix of a pop song across the street.

  Normally, I tuned it all out.

  But today, it felt different.

  Today, I wasn’t alone.

  At some point, without thinking, I reached out and gently wrapped my hand around hers.

  She froze.

  For a second, I thought maybe I messed up — that maybe it was too much, too fast.

  But then, slowly, she curled her fingers around mine.

  Tight.

  Like she was afraid if she let go, she’d disappear again.

  I squeezed back, just as tightly.

  We walked the rest of the way like that, hand in hand, two small specks against the sprawling, noisy backdrop of the city.

  The market was already busy when we got there.

  Colorful stalls crammed into every inch of space, selling everything from cheap clothes to fake jewelry to used electronics.

  "Alright," I said, scanning the stalls. "Operation: Get You Clothes begins now."

  She looked around, wide-eyed, like she didn’t even know where to start.

  I chuckled.

  "Don’t worry," I said. "We’ll find something good."

  Most of the clothes here weren’t exactly designer, but they were cheap and decent enough for now.

  We sifted through racks together, me pulling out random T-shirts and hoodies, her shaking her head at almost everything.

  At one point, I held up a bright neon-pink hoodie with "GIRL BOSS" written in glitter letters across the front.

  She stared at it, horrified.

  I grinned.

  "Kinda suits you," I teased.

  She smacked my arm with a scandalized look.

  I laughed for real then, loud enough that a few nearby shoppers turned to stare.

  For once, I didn’t care.

  Eventually, we settled on a few simple outfits — jeans, a couple of T-shirts, a soft gray hoodie that she hugged to her chest like it was made of gold.

  At the checkout, she tried to protest.

  "I can pay you back," she whispered, cheeks pink.

  I shook my head.

  "Don't worry about it."

  "But—"

  "No 'buts'."

  She looked down at her shoes, biting her lip, but said nothing more.

  Afterward, we found a tiny food stall tucked into a side alley selling spicy noodles.

  I ordered two bowls and we sat on a cracked plastic bench, eating while watching the world go by.

  She slurped a noodle and immediately started coughing from the spice.

  I panicked and handed her my drink without thinking.

  She took it, drinking in little desperate gulps, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.

  I couldn’t help it —

  I laughed.

  She glared at me with watery eyes.

  "Not funny," she muttered.

  "It’s a little funny," I said, grinning.

  When we were done, we started walking back.

  The sky was starting to cloud over again, heavy with the promise of rain.

  As we crossed the street, she suddenly tugged at my sleeve.

  I turned to her.

  She was looking up at me, something shy and fragile blooming behind her golden eyes.

  "...Thank you," she said, voice barely above the rumble of distant thunder.

  I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but the words got stuck in my throat.

  Instead, I just smiled and squeezed her hand.

  No need for words.

  She already knew.

  By the time we got back to the apartment, the rain had started falling in soft, lazy drops.

  I unlocked the door and we stumbled inside, both of us shaking the rain from our hair like wet dogs.

  She laughed — a real laugh this time, bright and small and beautiful.

  And standing there, soaked and tired and smiling at each other in the middle of a cra

  ppy little apartment...

  I realized something.

  It didn’t matter how small the space was.

  It didn’t matter that the walls were thin and the water heater barely worked.

  It felt like home.

  Because she was here.