A warm cup of coffee is pushed your way, steaming and simmering. You’re not sure exactly how to respond. Do you thank him? Do you just drink it? How exactly are you supposed to react to such sweet gestures, such foreign gestures?

    It didn’t used to be this way.

    It used to be dysfunctional. Battered and torn up and resewn with all the wrong pieces put together and then ripped apart over and over again.

    How did you end up in such a place? A place of such peace and tranquility; it was amazing. Amazingly ridiculous. So much had changed so quickly. It used to manipulation and threats, now it was relaxation and comfort. How how how how how.

    You stare down at the coffee, almost challenging it in a way. It was not going to dissipate into the image of the past. It was going to stay exactly like this. A cup of coffee. Nothing was going to change, this wasn’t a figment of your imagination, this was real and that was the past and that was fake. This this this this this. It was a newer, better you. A newer, better life. Draped in the warming sensation of fuzzy blankets and coffee brewing in the background. Warm, brown eyes that were not laced with malice and anger. These, they were the exact opposite. They were just like the contents of the mug before you: inviting, steaming, soothing.

    It wasn’t going to be like the past.

    It was going to be anew.

    That’s all that mattered.

    “How are you feeling?” A loose white tee draped itself over his frame, not exactly bony, yet not exactly muscular. It was lean, toned in all the right ways.

    You like it. You like it a lot.

    “I’m okay.”

  You’re voice doesn’t sound like you. Not like the old you, anyways. It does not sound like desperation and fear are strangling your vocal chords.

    And he likes it. He likes it a lot.

    He props a hand under his chin, taking in the appearance of you swallowed in a huge sweater. He didn’t have anything else on hand, so it was going to have to do. But honestly, he really doesn’t mind. Not one bit.

    He knows your past and that’s what scares you. You are supposed to be sheltered in the four walls of a box that the past built. But this, this is not like that. He’s broken down these walls and rather than confine you to new ones, he has let you run free and breathe in fresh air, blossoming flowers and all the sounds and sights your senses can barely handle.

    “Why?”

    The word is just hanging in the air, tentative as a pin about to drop in a room full of silence. You don’t know how he will react to it and all of a sudden, a certain fear clenches around your throat. You fear that you’ve made a huge mistake, a serious mistake. Anything that comes out of your mouth could mean the end of your freedom. Anything that comes out of your mouth could be the sole reason for him to put up new walls again and box you in. Keep you not as a human. A pet.

    And you don’t like it. You don’t like it one bit.

    He notices your behavior. Nothing goes unmissed by him. He senses the changes in your posture, subtle stiffness. Downcast eyes.

    And he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it one bit.

    He wants you to be open with him, to be comfortable next to him, in his embrace. There’s no reason for you to be afraid anymore, he has saved you and you are no longer bound to what used to be. But old habits die hard, and he also understands that it’s going to take more than a couple of hours to fully comprehend the fact that you are free. You are renewed.

    You continue to stare down at the coffee. You don’t touch it. You don’t trust him—at least, not yet. You don’t know what he’s like, who he truly is. All you have seen of him has been his outer shell, and while you do enjoy that, you are also aware of the fact that this could all be a ruse.

His hair is mousy in a freshly washed way and his smile is clean, neat. A little mole decorating his upper lip. Smiling eyes that rival the gloom in yours. It’s almost hilarious how opposite you two are, but that doesn’t seem to bother him.

  He is tender, gentle. His words are well picked and they are delivered with the utmost grace, you can’t help but internally swoon in their comfort.

  “Nobody deserves that. Least of all you.”

  The tiniest smile curls upon your lips. Your hands ball into your oversized sweater. You don’t know how to react, you don’t know if you should trust your gut or your instinct. They could lead you one way or the other, and you don’t want to make the wrong decision.

  But he is firm in his stance. He wants to make you feel secure, not free-falling. If anything, free-falling into safety. He is tired of seeing you in the past, milling about, tripping your way through murky scenarios that only serve to pull you in deeper and deeper.

  So he gives you the brightest, bestest grin that he can. Pearly whites and squarish corners all on display.

  And at that, you bite your bottom lip. That smile—it can’t be fake. It can’t be. So inviting. So welcoming. You know genuinity when you see it and right now, you are seeing it.

You don’t bring your eyes to his. You don’t even really look at him at all.

  But you grasp the ceramic handle of the mug. Bring it to your lips.

  Take the smallest sip.

  And you like it. You like it a lot.

  Little do you know, so does he.