"I got new locks." The words come out accusingly, though I hadn’t meant them to be. "How are you still here?"
For the first time, he almost smiles. "Nice locks. Professional installation." The coin appears in his hand again, rolling across his knuckles. "But locks are just suggestions to people with the right skills."
The implications of this hit me like a physical blow. He’s been here the entire time. While I was congratulating myself on solving the problem, while I was telling myself I’d imagined the whole thing, he was here. Sleeping in the bedroom, eating my food, living in my space.
"How long?" I ask weakly.
"Three nights," he says simply. "I found this place three nights ago."
The thought makes my knees weak.
"I need to sit down," I whisper, and before I can stop myself, I sink onto the kitchen chair.
He immediately takes several steps back, giving me as much space as the small cottage allows.
"Are you okay?" he asks, and there’s genuine concern in his voice. "You look pale. Should I get you some water?"
I stare at him in amazement. He’s worried about my welfare? He’s the one who’s been secretly living in my cottage, and he’s concerned about whether I need water?
"I don’t understand," I say finally. "Why here? Why my cottage?"
He leans against the kitchen counter, maintaining that careful distance. "It was unlocked," he says simply. "And it felt… safe."
"Safe." My voice comes out flat, but inside I’m replaying every time I’ve come out here alone, in the dark, without telling anyone.
"Yeah." He seems to struggle with how to explain. "Most places, you have to worry about other people finding you. Cops, security, other people who might not be friendly. But this place…" He looks around the cottage with something almost like reverence. "It felt protected. Like nothing bad could happen here."
My sanctuary. He’s describing exactly what the cottage has always been for me—a place of safety and peace.
"You needed somewhere safe," I say slowly, trying to understand.
His gaze drops for a moment. "I needed somewhere to sleep without worrying about getting robbed or arrested," he says. "This was the first place that felt like a real refuge."
He doesn’t say more. No tragic backstory. No explanation beyond that one carefully chosen word: refuge.
"Are you…" I pause, not sure how to ask politely. "Are you hungry?"
The question seems to surprise him. "Right now?"
"In general." My fingers knot together in my lap. "I mean, if you’ve been living here, you’ve been eating my food, but I don’t usually keep much here. Just snacks and coffee."
"I’ve been managing," he says carefully. "I try not to take more than I need."
Despite his circumstances, he carries himself with a pride I can’t look away from. He isn’t a beggar—he’s a man who refuses to break.
"What’s your name?" I ask impulsively.
He hesitates for a moment, as if debating whether to tell me the truth.
"Draco," he says finally.
"Draco." The name feels dangerous on my tongue, like tasting something forbidden and finding I want more. "I’m Charity."
"Charity." He nods, filing the information away. "Are you going to call the police, Charity?"
The question hangs in the air between us. It’s what I should do, isn’t it? What any reasonable person would do when they discover a stranger living in their private space. Logic screams that I should reach for my phone. But instinct whispers for me to stay exactly where I am and keep talking.
And for once, instinct feels stronger.
