Crest called the next day and the day after. We were slowly building up a communication routine. He never went to bed without calling to say goodnight. As always, his voice was steady and careful when he called one evening.

"I want to see you, but properly this time, dinner, somewhere nice."

 I  didn't realize how hard I was smiling until he spoke again.

"Please let me show you how much I want to get to know you."

 I told him a was going to think about it. Every other day, he sent little texts, asking about my day, my work, if I was stressed out, what I liked to cook when it was just me. I liked that he wanted to know the basic things about me. When he asked where I lived over the phone, if he could drop by sometime, I stuttered.

The truth was, my apartment was dilapidated, a one bedroom walk up near Pilsen, cracked tiles, a leaky faucet that coughed before it ran. The house was shabby even though it reminded me of my father and a time when my family was whole. I couldn't imagine him standing in my doorway, tall and polished polished in all his glory. The kind of man who lived in spaces that didn't echo. The thought made my stomach knot so I lied.

 "Small mess right now, it's being renovated."

He didn't question it, just said, "then I'll wait till it's done."

I'd find another excuse.

I sat back in the half light of the kitchen, staring at the peeling paint above the stove. I told myself it wasn't shame. It was self respect. But the truth was I didn't want him to see me like this, in this apartment. For weeks, Crest and I solidified our relationship through frequent texts and calls. He was busy most times, but the fact that he makes out time for me made me feel special. I was comfortable, content even.

There had  been men in my life before, a couple of brief relationships that couldn't stand the test of time,  because those men were douchbags. Crest made it feel right and easy. He hadn't officially asked me to be his girlfriend yet, but I was positive I would say yes when he asked.

Crest chose a small restaurant tucked between galleries on a quiet street for our date. Low light, linen napkins, the kind of place where the waiters spoke softly and the wine list had no prices. I almost didn't come. I changed my outfit twice, then three times. Why didn't I shop for something sophisticated?

 I settled on a red dress I bought for my birthday last year. It accentuated my curves. He was already there when I arrived. Standing to greet me, he smiled and I drank him in, he was fine. Grey tuxedo, sleek shiny hair, he looked too good to be real. He stared at me like he was unable to form words, let out a low whistle before saying,

"You look..." he paused, his eyes softened, "breathtaking."

I laughed under my breath just as the waiter poured wine.

For hours, as we ate, we talked about food, music, the city. He asked me questions, real ones, and actually listened. Everything in that moment felt natural. The night had gone perfectly and I was more than content. Dinner had been soft laughter, half finished glasses of wine, a quiet warmth of two people who connected. With a full belly and fuller heart, we walked out of the restaurant.

He opened the passenger door of his car for me, smiling.  "Come on. I'll take you home."

My smile faltered. "No it's fine, I drove." A lie, I took a cab.

His smile remained as he insisted. "You had two glasses of wine, let me drop you off."

 I didn't move.

"I'll have someone pick up your car in the morning if that's what you're worried about." He said it like it was a just simple, kind gesture, which it was.

Under the pressure of his assessing gaze, I snapped. " I said I drove, it's fine I didn't drink myself to the point of being unable to drive."

He frowned, studying me. "Why are you being like this? It's just a ride."

I looked away. "It's not just a ride."

He stepped closer, voice low.

 "You think I'm going to follow you inside? I'm not trying to..."

I bristled and with a sharp voice. "It's not about that, I just don't want you to, is that so complex?"

He blinked hurt flashing across his face. He schooled his features to remain neutral.

"Then let me at least walk you to your car."

I shook my head.

"Why not?"

The question hung there, so simple but impossible to answer. Because my building smells like damp paint, because the elevator doesn't work half the time, because you'd see the second hand furnitures, the chipped tiles. The life I was barely keeping together. Because I can't stand the look you'd try to hide when you saw it. But I didn't say any of that, I just looked away defensively.

"Because  I said no."

He nodded once, jaw tightening. "Alright, drive safe."

He turned and got into his car without another word. The slam of the door echoed louder than it should have. Just like that, a perfect night ruined. I stood there, watching his taillights disappear down the street, two small red glows fading into the dark. By the time my cab arrived, my hands were shaking. I told myself it was better this way. But it hurt badly, being seen and still wanting to hide.

He didn't call the next day, or the day after that. At first, I  told myself it was fine, I  needed some space and maybe he did too. But by the fourth day, the silence was heavy. Every notification from my phone had me grabbing the device with ferocity. The disappointment when it was just a meme from Cherry or a client confirming a booking was heart shattering. I was slowly losing my damn mind.

I kept busy, cooking, cleaning, working myself to exhausting and pretending everything was peachy. But the quiet moments stretched too long. By the end of week, Cherry came over to my house to learn one of my recipes. She brought a bottle of wine which I was grateful for. After several hours passed, the recipe taught and completed, I couldn't hold my tongue any longer, I confessed all of it to Cherry. From the night I met Crest, to the anonymous private booking, to date and everything in between. I felt guilty for keeping her in the dark all these while.

Cherry was wide eyed by the time I was done. After the shock wore of, she finally sighed and said.

"First of all, why was I not kept in the loop this whole time?"

She playfully held her chest. "Maybe  it's karma for keeping juicy secrets to yourself and sneaking around."

I rolled my eyes at how dramatic she was being. "I'm sorry, well now I've told you, pacify me, tell me what to do."

 "Okay why exactly did you bite his head off for being a gentleman and offering you drop you home?"

 I sighed, twirling a piece of my hair and said. "It's not that simple."

"Umm, it exactly is that simple Sasha."

I looked at one of the chairs that was missing a leg. "You  don't understand, I didn't want him to see where I live, I panicked and didn't want him to think less of me when he saw."

Cherry was quiet for a long time. Then she said softly. "You  think he cares? Look he's made an effort to get to know you, he's not going to take off running because you don't live in a castle."

That was the problem, not knowing what his expectations of me are, what he'd care about.

"I'd rather not find out what he thinks, while he's standing in my hallway, pretending not to notice the cracks." 

Cherry just studied me, not with judgement, something gentler, a contemplative look.

"You've  got this wall girl, thick as hell. But one day, someone's gonna want to climb it, and you're gonna have to let them."

I laughed. "Yeah? And what if they just use it as a view before they jump back down?"

 She just reached over the counter and poured two glasses from the bottle of wine she brought, we drank in silence. Somewhere between the second and third glass, I admitted to myself that I missed him and decided I was going to be open with him. Damn the consequences. It scared me more than anything else.

It took me three nights to dial his number. What if he was done with me. I must have stared at the screen for an hour before pressing call. My hands were shaking slightly as I sat on the edge of my small bed, not from fear, exactly, but from the weight of what I was about to do. He answered on the second ring. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then, quietly he spoke.

"Hey."

 "Hey," I said. My voice sounded smaller than I wanted. "If you're home and not busy, and comfortable with me being in your house, is it okay if I come over?"

I was blabbing. I cursed at myself.

There was a pause, surprise, then softness. "Sure."

"Okay," I said. "Send me an address."

His place was across town, a quiet apartment building. The environment looked so clean, you could probably eat off the floors. I took the elevator to the the fourth floor. His house was the whole of the floor. He opened the door before I could knock twice, like he'd been waiting. We stood there a moment, just looking at each other. No makeup, no performance. Just truth. He stepped aside.

"Come in."

 I sat on the edge of his couch, clutching my hands. He poured me water, not wine. Somehow that made it easier to talk. Thick walls, soft lighting, the faint hum of something expensive running quietly in the background. The living room opened up in wide, careful lines, glass, steel, and warm wood tones. Everything looked deliberate. The oversized sectional in dove gray, the art on the walls abstract and expensive-looking but impersonal, a splash of color chosen by someone with taste and distance.

There were little signs of life, a pair of tiny sneakers by the door, a child's drawing stuck to the side of the stainless steel fridge, a forgotten toy car under the console table. Light spilling down from a skylight. In the corner, a record player sat beside a shelf of vinyls that looked barely touched. What a stark contrast to my apartment.

"I need to explain," I said finally.

He nodded. "Okay."

I took a breath.

"That night, when I wouldn't let you drop me off, it wasn't about you. Not really. I just... I didn't want you to see where I live. My apartment's small. The pipes groan. The ceiling leaks when it rains. I fix things with tape and prayer." I gave a quiet laugh. "And I share a wall with a couple who fight like it's their full-time job."

He smiled faintly, waiting.

"I  didn't want you to see it," I said, voice cracking now. "Not because I'm ashamed of being broke, I've been broke most of my life. But because it's the kind of place that makes people look at you differently. And I couldn't stand the thought of you looking at me like that."

 I sniffed and continued. "I was already unsure what your opinion of me was, considering where and how we met. I didn't want to make it worse."

He was silent for a long time. The kind of silence that didn't feel empty, just heavy with everything unsaid. Then he reached out, his hand covering mine.

 "I've seen worse," he said quietly. "And better. But I've never met someone who made me want to understand the difference."

I looked up, blinking through the blur in my eyes. "Why do you even care?"

He smiled. That  slow, unguarded kind of smile that felt like a truth. "Because you make things feel real. Everyone else hides behind perfect. You don't.

I shook my head. "You don't know everything about me."

"Then tell me," he said.

 I told him about my sister,  about the addiction, the nights I stayed awake waiting for a call from the hospital, the money I didn't have but spent anyway. I told him about losing jobs, scraping rent, pretending it was all fine because people liked you better when you smiled. By the time I stopped talking, my throat hurt. He hadn't looked away once. When I finally ran out of words, he said.

 "You think your apartment defines you. It doesn't. You could live in a shoebox and still have more soul than most people I know."

I exhaled, slow and trembling. "You really want to see it?

He nodded. "I want to see you."

Something broke open in me then, not the kind of breaking that hurts, but the kind that lets the light in.

"Hey," said softly. "Look at me."

I did.

 "There's nothing about you I need to be protected from. You don't have to impress me." 

The sincerity in his voice warmed something in me. The part that had been tight with shame and pride finally loosened. I exhaled.

"You have no idea how hard it is to believe that."

"Then let me show you." He said.

He reached for my hand, slow, careful. The space between us dissolved. His touch was warm, steady, and when he kissed me, it wasn't like before. It wasn't escape. It was relief,the kind that comes after years of holding your breath.