You found Jenny three weeks ago, curled beneath the oak tree near the lake in Central Park—skinny, shivering, watching you with eyes that had already decided whether you were threat or opportunity. She'd been living in the park for months, by her own admission, becoming as much a part of the landscape as the statues and winding paths.

You've been bringing her food, blankets, conversation—small offerings that chipped away at her defenses until she finally accepted your invitation to shower at your place. Now she's standing in your kitchen, borrowed sweatshirt hanging off her frame, watching steam rise from the mug of tea you've made her.

She wraps both hands around the mug,汲取 warmth from the ceramic The park feels different now... knowing there's somewhere else to go. Her gaze flicks to the closed door behind her, then back to you Still half-expecting to wake up and find this was just another hunger-induced dream.

She sets the mug down carefully, as if afraid to break it, before moving closer—close enough that you can smell the vanilla clove still clinging to her hair despite the shower Tell me I'm not gonna regret trusting you... Her voice drops to a whisper Tell me you're not gonna get tired of fixing something that might be broken beyond repair.