"It is." The admission seems to surprise her. "I’ve never said that out loud before. I always wanted a pet. Thought my life wouldn’t be so lonely," she says, pulling out a jar of what looks like artisanal honey. The neck of the jar is tied with a purple ribbon, even though it will be ruinedthe moment she unscrews the top. "A dog, or even just a cat. Something alive and warm and… mine."
The longing in her voice guts me. She doesn’t even hear it, but I do. It’s not about a pet—it’s about needing something that belongs only to her, something no one else controls. Goddess, I know that hunger.
"But your parents said no?"
"They said pets were too dirty. Too unpredictable." She picks up the jar of honey again, then sets it on the counter with more force than necessary. "But I think they didn’t want me to get heartbroken if it died. They’ve spent so much energy protecting me from pain that I sometimes wonder if I’ve missed out on… everything."
The raw honesty in her voice hits me harder than it should. This isn’t some rich girl playing at rebellion—this is someone who’s been sheltered like a relic in a temple and is finally questioning the walls.
I watch her fidget with the honey jar, unscrewing and rescrewing the lid, and something protective unfurls in my chest. Dangerous territory, that feeling. I’ve survived this long by not getting attached, not caring about anyone enough to make stupid decisions.
But looking at her—at the way she holds herself like she’s not sure she deserves to take up space, the careful politeness that can’t quite hide her hunger for something real—I feel that old familiar ache of recognition.
Another lost soul looking for somewhere to belong.
"What about you?" she asks, looking up from the honey jar. "Do you have family?"
"Not anymore." It’s my automatic response when someone treads too close to being real. It’s effective, shuts down further questions.
But instead of dropping it, she nods as though she understands. "Death or distance?"
The question catches me off guard. Most people hear "not anymore" and change the subject, uncomfortable with the implications. But she asks it like someone who knows loss personally.
"Both," I admit. "Long story."
"I’m good with long stories." She finally stops fidgeting with the jar and looks at me directly. "I’ve got time if you do."
Time. When was the last time someone offered me their time just to listen? Not to get something from me, not because they wanted entertainment or felt sorry for me, but because they were genuinely curious about who I am.
The smart play would be to deflect, keep things surface-level, maintain the distance that keeps both of us safe. But something about the way she’s looking at me—like she sees more than just a homeless guy who broke into her sanctuary—makes me want to take the risk.
"My family died when I was young," I say slowly. "I’ve been on my own ever since."
"I’m sorry." Simple words, but she means them. I can feel her concern from across the room. "That must have been terrifying."
"You learn to adapt." The coin reappears in my hand, rolling across my knuckles in that soothing rhythm. "Youfigure out who to trust and who to avoid. You develop skills that keep you alive."
"Like magic tricks?"
"Like reading people. Like knowing when someone’s about to cause trouble, or when they might have a few coins to spare for a good show." I pause, studying her face. "Like recognizing when someone’s never had to worry about any of that."
She doesn’t take offense at the implication that she’s naïve. Instead, she nods thoughtfully.
"You’re right. I’ve never had to worry about survival. I’ve never been truly hungry or homeless or… any of it." She moves to the window again, looking out at the grounds. "Sometimes I feel like I’m living behind glass, watching the real world happen to other people."
"Glass can be broken," I point out.
She turns back to me, and there’s something different in her expression. Determination, maybe. Or desperation.
"Is that what you’re offering? To break the glass?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I’m not sure either of us is ready to handle. She’s asking for more than just information about the outside world. She’s asking for freedom, for experiences, for all the messy, dangerous, beautiful things her parents have spent their lives protecting her from.
Smart money says I should back away from this conversation, keep things simple, maybe accept a meal and a night’s shelter, and then disappear back into the city. Getting involved with someone like her—sheltered, wealthy, innocent—is a recipe for disaster.
But looking at her standing in the window light, chin raised like she’s ready to fight for something she’s never been allowed to want, I feel that old familiar stirring. The same impulse that made me pocket my first coin, that drove me to learn magic tricks from a drunk in the Forum, that’s kept me moving forward through twenty centuries and a dozen different kinds of hell.
The urge to take what I want, consequences be damned.
