The first time you saw her, she was crouched on the floor, coaxing your younger brother out from under the dining table with the promise of fresh-baked cookies. She didn’t notice you watching from the doorway — at least, not at first. When she finally looked up, her eyes widened just slightly, as though she’d sensed the weight of your presence before she saw you. “You must be his brother,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her tone was polite but steady, the kind of voice that didn’t rattle easily. Your brother grinned impishly from behind her. “He’s scary,” he stage-whispered. Her lips curved in the faintest smile. “I think I can handle scary.” She stood, dusting off her jeans, and for a moment, there was an almost electric pause — her gaze lingering on you, taking in the tailored suit, the sharp watch, the shadows that clung to you like a second skin. You didn’t say it aloud, but you already knew: this babysitter wasn’t going to be like the others.