The sound came before the pain.
A sharp crash against the wall, followed by the clatter of a bottle hitting the floor. The smell of alcohol filled the small, suffocating room, thick and bitter, clinging to everything it touched.
Jenny froze.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the worn kitchen table, her breath shallow, uneven. She didn't need to turn around to know what was coming next.
"Where is it?" her father's voice slurred from behind her.
She swallowed hard. "I… I used it for food."
Silence.
For a second, she thought—hoped—that maybe tonight would be different.
It wasn't.
A heavy hand slammed against the table beside her, making her flinch violently.
"Food?" he barked, his tone rising. "You think you can just spend my money however you like?"
"It wasn't—" her voice shook. "There was nothing left in the house—"
The words barely left her mouth before his grip closed around her arm.
Tight.
Too tight.
Jenny gasped softly, instinctively trying to pull away, but it only made his hold stronger.
"You always have an excuse," he muttered, his breath hot with alcohol. "Always acting like you're suffering more than everyone else."
Pain shot through her arm as he shoved her back slightly. Her body hit the edge of the table, the impact dull but familiar.
Too familiar.
She bit down on her lip, forcing back the tears threatening to fall. Crying only made it worse. It always did.
"I'm sorry," she whispered quickly. "I'll fix it. I'll get more money, I promise."
Her father scoffed, releasing her with a rough push.
"You better," he snapped, turning away and grabbing another bottle from the counter. "Or don't bother coming back."
The words hit harder than anything else.
Jenny stood there for a moment, unmoving, her chest rising and falling too fast. The room felt smaller now, the walls closing in, the air harder to breathe.
This wasn't new.
None of it was.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Slowly, she lowered herself onto the chair, her hands trembling as she stared at the floor. A faint ache spread through her arm, but she ignored it.
Physical pain was easy.
It faded.
This?
This didn't.
Her gaze drifted toward the small window across the room. Outside, the sky had already darkened, the cold night settling in.
For a long time, she just sat there.
Thinking.
Or maybe trying not to think.
Then, without fully deciding to, she stood.
Her father didn't notice as she walked past him. Or maybe he just didn't care.
Pulling her thin jacket around herself, Jenny stepped outside.
The cold hit her instantly, sharp against her skin—but it felt better than staying inside.
Anything felt better than staying inside.
The streets were quieter than usual, the night stretching endlessly ahead of her. She didn't have a destination. She didn't have a plan.
She just… walked.
Her mind replayed everything over and over again—the shouting, the anger, the way her life seemed stuck in the same painful loop with no way out.
Was this all there was?
Was this all her life was ever going to be?
The thought made her chest tighten.
She stopped walking.
Across the street, a small bar glowed faintly under flickering lights. Laughter spilled out from inside, mixed with music and the clinking of glasses.
Jenny stared at it.
She had never been inside a place like that before.
It wasn't her world.
But then again…
Neither was the life she was living.
For a moment, she hesitated.
Then she exhaled slowly.
"I don't want to think tonight…" she murmured to herself.
And with that—
She stepped inside.
The warmth hit her first.
Then the noise.
Voices, laughter, music—everything blending together into something overwhelming yet strangely freeing. No one was shouting at her. No one was looking at her with anger or disappointment.
No one cared.
And for once… that felt like peace.
Jenny moved awkwardly toward the counter, sitting down quietly as she glanced around. Everything felt unfamiliar, almost unreal.
"What can I get you?" the bartender asked.
She hesitated.
Then said the first thing that came to her mind.
"Something strong."The bartender gave her a quick glance—half curious, half amused—but said nothing. Within seconds, a glass was placed in front of her, the amber liquid catching the dim light.
Jenny stared at it.
It looked harmless.
It wasn't.
Her fingers hesitated around the glass before she finally lifted it, bringing it to her lips. The first sip burned—sharp and unfamiliar—making her cough lightly.
She almost pushed it away.
Almost.
But then the memories crept in again… her father's voice, the weight in her chest, the suffocating feeling she couldn't escape.
So she took another sip.
Then another.
Across the room, someone was watching.
He hadn't meant to notice her.
Women like her didn't usually come into places like this—not alone, not looking so… out of place. She sat too straight at first, too quiet, her eyes unsure as they moved around the room like she was trying to understand where she had stepped into.
And yet…
She stayed.
That alone caught his attention.
He leaned back slightly in his seat, his gaze lingering longer than it should have. Something about her didn't fit—and that made it impossible to ignore.
Not the loud laughter.
Not the music.
Not even the people trying to get his attention.
Just her.
Jenny exhaled softly as warmth began to spread through her body. The tightness in her chest loosened, her thoughts no longer as sharp, no longer as painful.
For the first time that night… she felt lighter.
"First time?"
The voice came from beside her.
She turned slightly, her vision just a little slower than usual, her thoughts softer around the edges.
He stood there—tall, composed, his presence quiet but impossible to overlook. There was something steady about him, something that didn't match the chaos of the room.
Jenny nodded faintly.
"I can tell," he said, not unkindly.
There was no mockery in his tone.
Just… observation.
She should have looked away.
She didn't.
"Is it that obvious?" she asked, her voice quieter now.
"A little," he replied.
A small pause settled between them—not awkward, not forced.
Just… there.
"Then why are you here?" he asked after a moment.
The question caught her off guard.
Jenny looked down at her glass, her fingers tracing the rim slowly.
"I just… didn't want to think," she said.
It wasn't the full truth.
But it was enough.
Something flickered in his eyes—something that said he understood more than she had said out loud.
He didn't ask anything else.
Instead, he gestured lightly toward the glass in her hand. "That won't help much."
A faint, almost sad smile touched her lips. "It's helping a little."
That was when he moved closer.
Not rushed.
Not forced.
Just enough to close the distance between them.
"Then maybe you just need something better than that," he said quietly.
Her heart skipped.
She didn't know why.
Maybe it was the way he said it.
Maybe it was the way he looked at her—not like everyone else had, not with judgment or expectation.
Just… calm.
Steady.
Safe.
Time passed, though neither of them seemed to notice.
The conversation came in small pieces—nothing too deep, nothing too revealing. No names. No pasts. Just fragments of thoughts, soft laughter, and quiet moments that stretched longer than they should have.
And somehow…
That made it easier.
Easier to forget.
Easier to breathe.
"Do you want to get out of here?"
The question came suddenly.
But it didn't feel sudden.
Jenny looked at him, her thoughts slow but not gone. She understood what he meant.
She should say no.
She knew she should.
But the idea of going back… back to that house, to that life waiting for her—it made her chest tighten all over again.
And right now…
She didn't want that.
Not yet.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the counter before she let go.
Then she nodded.
The night air hit her again as they stepped outside, colder now—but it didn't feel as harsh.
Not with him beside her.
They walked in silence.
Not uncomfortable.
Just quiet.
When they reached the building, she didn't ask where they were. And he didn't explain.
There were no questions.
No expectations spoken out loud.
That was the unspoken agreement.
Inside, the room was dim, the same cold breeze slipping through the slightly open window.
For a moment, they just stood there.
Looking at each other.
No names.
No past.
No future.
Just the present.
He stepped closer first.
Slowly.
Giving her time.
Always giving her time.
Jenny didn't move away.
Her breath caught as his hand lifted, brushing lightly against her cheek. The touch was warm, grounding, real in a way everything else that night hadn't been.
This was real.
She knew what was about to happen.
And this time…
She didn't hesitate.
When his lips met hers, it wasn't rushed.
It was soft.
Careful.
Like he was still asking.
And she answered the only way she could—
By leaning into him.She leaned into him, letting the warmth of his body press gently against hers. The city lights outside the window cast faint shadows across the room, making the small space feel both intimate and infinite.
He rested his hands lightly on her waist, careful and steady, guiding her closer without rushing. Her pulse raced, heart hammering in her chest like a warning—and an invitation at the same time.
For a long moment, they simply stayed there, lips brushing, breaths mingling, letting the silence stretch between them.
Then, when she whispered something soft against his lips—hesitant, almost fragile—he froze for a heartbeat.
It wasn't her hesitation alone.
It was something deeper, something unmistakable.
Her innocence.
Her virginity.
He realized it suddenly, sharply, the realization sending a mix of shock, desire, and protectiveness through him. It wasn't that he hadn't expected it—he'd noticed the way she moved, the careful way she touched him—but this… this changed everything.
"Are you…?" he asked quietly, barely above a whisper, his lips hovering near hers.
She gave a tiny nod, her eyes wide, cheeks flushing.
His breath hitched.
Xavier had seen desire before. Passion before. But this—this combination of vulnerability, trust, and unspoken curiosity—it made him pause. He could feel the weight of the moment, the responsibility, and yet he couldn't look away.
He lowered his lips to hers again, this time slower, more deliberate, letting her lead as much as he could. Every touch, every gentle movement, carried respect. He didn't rush. He didn't take. He guided.
Her fingers threaded into his hair, holding on, grounding herself. She wasn't afraid of him—she trusted him enough to let herself melt into his arms.
That truth—her willingness—sent a shiver down him.
For the rest of the night, every kiss, every whispered word, every gentle brush of hands carried a tension that was more than physical. It was the recognition of something precious, something fleeting.
They didn't speak of it aloud again. Not needing to. But the unspoken understanding lingered: this night was different. For her, it was the first time someone had truly held her with care, not just desire. For him, it was the first time he had ever wanted to take care of someone so completely—and yet, in that same moment, wanted her in every way.
And in the quiet that followed, as the cold breeze slipped through the window, neither needed names, histories, or promises.
For one night, there was only this—only them.