The Weight of Trust
Bianca had learned early that trust was not a currency that lasted. You spent it once, and when it ran out, you were left with bruises, broken promises, or silence. Sometimes all three.
It had been five days since she last saw Lucien.
She hadn't responded to his message, though she had read it over and over:
"J'espère que tu vas bien. Tu me manques."
(I hope you're well. I miss you.)
Fourteen words. Simple. Thoughtful. Dangerous.
Bianca sat on her fire escape, a cigarette dangling between her fingers, the glow painting her face in warm flickers against the chill of the night air. Below, the city kept moving, oblivious to her stalling heart and the voice inside her screaming to push Lucien away before he reached anything soft.
She couldn't afford softness.
He'd asked her to let him in. To show him something beneath the woman who put on perfume and heels and sold pieces of herself in the dark.
But she wasn't sure what was left to show. Not after the years. Not after everything.
Bianca had survived men who whispered sweet things while digging into her soul like thieves. She'd learned how to fake a laugh, how to arch her back just enough to make it feel real, how to take the money and run before anyone could make her stay.
And now… someone wanted to stay.
Lucien wasn't like the others. That much, she knew. He didn't grope or paw or rush. He didn't just want her body. He wanted something terrifyingly honest—time, conversation, the girl behind the mask.
But she didn't know if she could let herself be seen. Not fully.
Because that girl? That girl had scars.
And scars didn't photograph well under soft lighting and clean sheets.
---
Bianca showed up at the usual place two nights later. Not because she had changed her mind—but because part of her needed to test him. Needed to see if he would still be there. If he meant what he'd said.
Room 509.
When she opened the door, Lucien stood at the window, watching the rain collect against the glass. He turned when she entered—no smile, no seductive posture. Just quiet relief in his eyes.
"You came," he said.
"I shouldn't have," she replied.
He nodded like he understood, but stepped forward anyway.
She kept her arms crossed tightly in front of her chest. "Don't say something gentle. Not tonight."
"I wasn't going to," he said. "But I was going to ask how your week was."
She laughed bitterly. "You really want to hear about it? About the drunk who tried to pay me in weed and lottery tickets? Or the guy who cried during and begged me to say his ex's name?"
Lucien's jaw tightened, but he didn't flinch. "If you want to talk about it, yes."
She took a shaky breath. "I don't want to talk. I just want to exist tonight. No pressure. No questions. Just… space."
He nodded again and backed away. "Take all the space you need."
She kicked off her boots and collapsed onto the bed. Lucien didn't touch her. Didn't move closer. He returned to his seat, picked up his book, and read in silence.
And somehow, that undid her more than any tender word.
After a while, she turned on her side, curling into the pillow.
"Why me?" she asked suddenly. "You could have anyone. A clean woman. One who doesn't carry all this mess. Why keep coming back?"
Lucien closed his book softly.
"Because I see someone who's still fighting," he said. "Even if the world tries to break you. Even if you want to disappear sometimes. I see someone strong, and I want to know her—more than just how she undresses. I want to know how she survived."
Bianca stared at the ceiling.
"I didn't survive. I adapted."
"Same thing," Lucien whispered.
"No." Her voice cracked. "Surviving means you made it out. Adapting means you just learned how to breathe underwater."
She turned her head toward him, tears stinging but never falling. "I'm still underwater, Lucien."
He got up slowly and crossed the room.
But instead of trying to fix her, instead of pulling her into some poetic moment, he simply sat beside her. He didn't touch her, didn't speak. He was just there.
And in that silence, Bianca began to understand something dangerous.
Lucien wasn't asking her to change.
He was asking her to let him witness who she already was.
And that terrified her more than anything.
---
Later, when she finally let him hold her, she buried her face in his chest and whispered something she hadn't said to anyone in years.
"I don't know how to trust."
Lucien didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "Then let's not rush it. Let me earn it. One night at a time."
And for the first time, Bianca didn't feel like running.