(Don't be a ghost reader)
Arya's POV
Work had been exhausting, as usual. The constant deadlines, the corporate politics, and the ceaseless hum of city life wore me down. But despite the chaos, there was something grounding about coming home. It wasn't perfect—far from it—but it was mine, and for now, that was enough. Lately, though, coming home meant finding Fray there.
The first night she showed up, it startled me. She'd always been an enigma, someone who drifted in and out of my life like smoke—intangible, impossible to pin down. But this time, she was flesh and blood. Bruised, bleeding, and teetering on the edge of collapse. My heart had clenched at the sight, a mix of anger and helplessness swirling within me. I hated seeing her like that. Hated knowing I couldn't protect her from whatever shadow she was running from.
I never asked her about it. Not directly, anyway. Fray was a fortress, her walls high and unyielding, and I knew better than to try breaking them down. It wasn't my place, I'd reasoned, even though it killed me to see her hurt. Everyone has their own battles, I told myself. Their own demons to face. But each time I thought I glimpsed a crack in her armor, she'd build it back up, stronger than before.
Yet, despite her guarded nature, there were moments when Fray's softness slipped through. Like the mornings she brought me coffee—always just the way I liked it—or the nights she'd show up with pastries, insisting I take a break from work. She had this way of showing care without saying much, her actions louder than any words.
I was hunched over my desk in the dim glow of my office lamp, completely absorbed in a sketch. The lines blurred as I worked, my hand moving instinctively, lost in the rhythm of creation. I didn't even hear the door creak open.
"Hey, pretty lady. You're looking as beautiful as ever."
I groaned inwardly. Lincoln. He sauntered in, his cocky grin plastered across his face. He was an artist too, though most of his energy seemed devoted to flirting with me. It was harmless, mostly, but tonight, I wasn't in the mood.
"I didn't know you'd be here so late," he continued, leaning against my desk. "If I'd known, I'd have brought you dinner."
"Thanks, but I'm good," I muttered, not bothering to look up.
"Or better yet," he said, undeterred, "how about I take you out? C'mon, Arya. I know you said you're gay and all, but I could change your mind."
I set my pencil down and fixed him with a glare. "First of all, I am gay. Second, if I weren't, you'd still be at the bottom of my list. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to do."
His face reddened, but he plastered on a smug smile. "Your loss," he shot back, slamming the door as he left.
Finally, peace.
By the time I finished, it was past two in the morning. My drawings were done—hopefully good enough to secure my future here. I locked them in a drawer, grabbed my things, and headed out. The streets were quiet, the city settling into its nocturnal rhythm.
Home was a small apartment in a slightly rundown building, but it had character. It was mine. As I climbed the stairs, I spotted a familiar figure seated in the hallway. Fray.
This time, she wasn't battered or broken. She looked...good. Her hair was tied back, and she wore a muscle shirt that showed off her toned arms. She glanced up from her phone, her lips curving into a smile.
"Hey," she said, her voice low and warm.
I couldn't help but smile back. "Look at you. Sitting up this time," I teased.
