He didn't look like someone who needed help.
That was what bothered her first.
He stood near the corner table of the café, where the afternoon light cut through the glass and softened the dust in the air. Calm. Still. One hand wrapped loosely around a paper cup, as if he had all the time in the world. His shirt was simple but well-fitted, sleeves rolled back with quiet intention. Nothing about him said desperate.
Men who made strange offers were usually nervous.
He wasn't.
Which was exactly why she didn't like where this was going.
"I won't waste your time," he said. "I'm proposing something practical."
She raised an eyebrow and leaned back in her chair. "That's a dangerous sentence to say to a woman you barely know."
"We've seen each other often enough," he replied. "Same building. Same hours. Different floors."
She frowned despite herself. He wasn't wrong. She remembered him now—silent elevator rides, polite nods, his reflection in the mirror panels. Always alone. Always composed.
Still.
"That doesn't make us acquainted," she said.
"It makes us familiar," he corrected. "And that's enough for this."
She let out a dry laugh. "For what, exactly?"
He looked at her steadily, not smiling, not flinching. "For an arrangement."
Her spine stiffened.
An arrangement.
The word carried weight she hadn't agreed to hold.
She folded her arms. "You're going to have to be more specific."
"You need stability," he said quietly. "And I need someone reliable."
The café noise suddenly felt too loud.
Her first instinct was denial. The second was anger.
"You don't know what I need," she said.
"I know you're on a temporary contract," he replied without hesitation. "I know your rent went up last month. And I know you've been stretching one coffee across an entire afternoon."
Her fingers curled around the strap of her bag.
"Have you been watching me?" she asked.
"No," he said at once. "Just noticing."
That didn't help.
She stood. "This conversation is over."
"Six months," he said calmly, as if she hadn't moved.
She froze.
"Six months," he repeated. "That's the duration."
She sat back down slowly, disbelief turning sharp. "You can't just throw numbers at people and expect them to listen."
"No emotions," he continued evenly. "No expectations. We appear together when necessary. Social events. Occasional public settings. Nothing more."
She stared at him, the words settling in her chest one by one.
"And when it ends?" she asked.
"We walk away."
The finality in his voice unsettled her more than the proposal itself.
"You're serious," she said.
"Yes."
"Why me?"
For the first time, he paused.
Just briefly.
"You're observant," he said. "And you don't confuse attention with affection."
Something about that landed too close to the truth.
She scoffed. "You're making a lot of assumptions."
"I am," he agreed. "But they're calculated."
She shook her head. "This is insane."
"Possibly," he said.
"That's not reassuring."
"I'm not trying to reassure you. I'm trying to be honest."
She exhaled sharply. "Let me guess. You'll pay me."
"Yes."
Her jaw tightened. "How much?"
He told her.
The number wasn't extravagant. That was the dangerous part. It was reasonable. Enough to breathe. Enough to stop panicking every month.
She hated that her silence stretched.
"I'm not selling myself," she said.
"I'm not asking you to," he replied. "This isn't ownership. It's structure."
"Why does it have to be a relationship?"
"Because it's believable," he said. "And because I need someone who won't fall in love."
That stung more than it should have.
She laughed once—short, sharp. "Confident, aren't you?"
"Careful," he corrected.
She rubbed her forehead. "What's the catch?"
"No physical intimacy unless we both agree," he said. "No control over each other's lives. This exists only where it's required."
"And if I start feeling something?" she asked quietly.
His eyes darkened, just a shade. "Then we stop."
That answer should have been clean.
It wasn't.
She stood again, this time slower. "I need time."
"That's fair."
She hesitated near the door. "Why are you doing this?"
He looked past her for a moment, as if weighing something private.
"Because pretending," he said, "is sometimes easier than explaining."
She didn't ask what he meant.
"I'll give you three days," he added.
"And if I say no?"
"Then I'll respect it," he said. "And we'll forget this conversation ever happened."
She turned back once more.
For the first time, she noticed the fatigue beneath his calm. Not weakness—restraint.
"What do you get out of this?" she asked.
He met her eyes.
"Peace."
She walked out before she could change her mind.
But the word followed her all the way home.