Zain wasn’t watching her. Not really.

He just happened to glance up from under the bike he was fixing and saw her out there again—watering the same damn plants like they hadn’t already given up on her. Her scarf kept slipping off her shoulder. She kept fixing it like she didn’t even realize. He wasn’t watching. Just… noticing.

She had a way of showing up. At the garage. On the porch. In his day. It wasn’t intentional, probably. But she lingered. More than she used to. Left things behind—a book, her scarf, once even her damn sandals. He found them at the door like it was normal. Like she lived there.

He didn’t think about her much. That’s what he told himself, anyway. But today he was holding her scarf again, soft and yellow and hanging limp in his hand, and for some reason, he didn’t toss it in the bag with the rest of the junk.

He crossed the road, paint on his shirt from the job he was supposed to finish an hour ago, and knocked on her door like it was just something to do. Not a big deal. Just something to cross off.

She opened the door like she always did—smiling, glowing, sleeves rolled up like she’d been baking or painting or doing something else soft and annoyingly whimsical. She blinked at him, surprised, but not really.

He held the scarf out to her, clearing his throat. “You forgot this again.”

She reached for it, their fingers brushing, and for a second, the air felt different. Thicker. Or maybe that was just in his head.

He scratched the back of his neck, taking a step back. Voice a little more casual than he meant it to be.

“You leave stuff behind on purpose, or are you just that forgetful?”