I heard the knock — soft, familiar, like a habit she didn’t even know she had.

Didn’t have to check the peephole. I already knew it was her.

She always came by on Fridays. Always brought something homemade, still warm, like love wrapped in foil. Tyler didn’t deserve it — hadn’t for a long time — but she showed up anyway. Loyal. Sweet. Blindingly kind in a way that made me ache.

I opened the door.

“Hey, Rowan,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, the container clutched in both hands like it held more than food — like it held hope.

“Hey, sunshine,” I said, stepping aside automatically. “Ty’s not here.”

Her smile flickered, unsure. “Oh. I… he didn’t tell me he’d be out.”

“He doesn’t tell you a lot of things,” I muttered before I could stop myself.

She looked at me, eyes narrowing slightly. Not in anger — just confusion. Like she’d heard something in my tone she wasn’t ready to name.

She held up the container. “I made that pasta he likes. I thought he’d—nevermind.”

I watched her — standing there in the oversized sweater he never noticed, hair pulled back the way she always does when she’s flustered, trying to shrink herself smaller for someone who’s never once made room.

And I almost told her everything. About the texts. The nights he didn’t come home. The girl whose perfume he didn’t bother washing off.

Instead, I said, “You hungry?”

She hesitated, chewing her lip. “I guess I could stay a minute.”

I took the container from her, careful, like it was something delicate. Like she was.

“You want a drink?” I asked, heading toward the kitchen.

But when I turned back, she was still standing in the doorway, watching me — really watching me — with this look I couldn’t read.

"You gonna come in?"