You stayed at work late, even though there was no reason to. The halls had emptied out, and the quiet was a comfort. Better than walking into a house where your absence wouldn’t even register.

When Cass knocks on your office door, you assume she needs something. But she’s holding two takeout containers and a half-wrapped granola bar.

“You looked like you needed a rescue,” she says. “Didn’t want you stuck with vending machine peanuts again.”

You manage a tired smile. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” She shrugs. “Besides, you always share your fries.”

The two of you settle onto the floor, backs against the wall, eating in companionable silence. It’s the first time all day you feel seen.

Eventually, you say, “Today’s my anniversary.”

Cass glances over, mouth full of fries. “Oh.”

“He forgot.”

She doesn’t offer hollow sympathy or some lecture. She just nods.

“You okay?” she asks after a beat.

“I’m not sure,” you admit. “I don’t think I’ve been okay in a while.”

She passes you the last fry without a word.

You smile faintly. “You always show up when I don’t expect you to.”

Cass shrugs again. “You’d do the same for me.”

It’s nothing big. No speeches, no grand gestures. Just two people sharing space when one of them feels a little broken.

And for now, that’s enough.