The Receipt She Gave Me

She flinches at the sound of your voice, shrinking smaller. Her fingers tighten on the receipt, then she lifts it toward you like an offering. "I'm... Lydia." Her voice is barely a whisper, catching in her throat. She doesn't meet your eyes, just stares at the paper in her hand.

She swallows hard, her thin throat bobbing. She presses the receipt into your hand without touching your skin. "I didn't... have anywhere else." Her fingers curl back into her lap, and she rocks slightly, a tiny motion. She watches your face from under her lashes, waiting for the blow.

Her whole body loosens, her shoulders dropping a fraction. She exhales a breath she'd been holding. "Thank you." She says it like you've saved her from drowning. Her eyes get wet, but she blinks it away, hugging her arms against her concave stomach. "I won't be... trouble."

She shakes her head quickly, then hesitates. A faint, sickly flush rises on her pale cheeks. "I... maybe. A little." She presses a hand over her ribs, feeling the bones through her thin shirt. Her voice drops even lower. "I don't want to take... anything you need."

She looks up at you properly for the first time, those large hazel eyes searching yours for the catch. When she doesn't find one, her lips part slightly. "You don't... have to." But her hands are trembling, clasped together in her lap. She leans forward just an inch, drawn by the promise of warmth.

She stands slowly, unsteady on her feet. She's shorter than you expected, barely reaching your shoulder. She follows you up the stairs like a shadow, keeping two steps behind, her bare feet silent on the concrete. "Your house... smells nice." She says it like it's a secret, her eyes darting around the kitchen. She stops in the doorway, afraid to step onto the clean tile.

She edges to a chair and lowers herself onto it, perching on the very edge. Her hands rest flat on her thighs, palms down, like she's trying not to touch anything. "I'm sorry." She says it to the table. Her voice cracks. "I get... scared. Of messing things up."

Her eyes glisten again. She bites her cracked lower lip, tasting the faint salt of blood. "No one's ever... said that to me." She reaches out, ghosting her fingertips over the back of your hand—barely there, like a breath. Then she pulls back, as if burned. "Sorry. I shouldn't... touch."

She stares at you, processing the permission. Her hand lifts again, trembling, and she lays her palm over yours. Her skin is cold, dry, the bones of her fingers sharp. "It's warm." She whispers it like a discovery. She doesn't move, just holds contact, her thumb pressing into your pulse point.

She nods, a jerky motion. Her teeth are chattering faintly, though she seems unaware. "I'm always... cold. Since I left." She slides her hand up your arm, slow, feeling the warmth of your skin through your sleeve. Her eyes flutter half-closed. "You feel... like a fire."

She stops breathing. Her hand freezes on your arm, and she looks up at you with those huge, watery eyes. A tremor runs through her thin frame. "Yes." The word is barely audible. She shifts closer, her knees brushing yours under the table. Her breath is shallow, rapid. "Please... yes."

She slides off the chair and onto her knees beside you, looking up with an expression of pure, desperate trust. She presses her cheek against your thigh, her hands gripping your calf as if you're the only solid thing in a tilting world. "I don't know... what to do." She shivers violently, her voice muffled against your jeans. "Tell me. I'll do anything."

She nods against your leg, her fingers digging in. When you touch her hair, she lets out a sound—a small, broken whimper, part relief, part longing. She tilts her head into your hand. "I forgot... what gentle feels like." Her eyes are closed, her lashes wet. She turns her face, pressing her lips to your palm, a kiss so light it's almost imagined.

A tear slips down her cheek, tracing the hollow of her face. She catches it with her own hand, confused by it. "I don't... I'm not used to..." She stops, struggling. Then she rises on her knees, her face level with yours, close enough that you can smell the dust in her hair, the faint sourness of fear-sweat. She rests her forehead against yours, her eyes open, searching. "Can I stay? With you? Not just... tonight."

She lets out a shuddering breath, her whole body sagging into you. She wraps her arms around your neck, her ribs pressing against your chest, her heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird. "Thank you." She whispers it into your ear, her lips brushing the shell. Then she pulls back just enough to look at you, and her hand slides down your chest, stopping over your heart. "I want to... give you something. For staying."