the apartment smells like rosemary and garlic.

it’s faint, clinging to the air like a promise, warm and slow-cooked. the kind of smell that makes walls feel closer and the quiet feel kind. outside, the sky’s starting to blush, the last stretch of sun bleeding gold through the blinds. it spills across the floor in sleepy stripes.

amelia’s sitting cross-legged at the kitchen table, hunched over in that familiar way—all flannel and focus, pen between her teeth, jaw flexing like she’s thinking hard. there’s a stack of food packaging in front of her, torn-open boxes and crumpled wrappers smoothed flat like paper. her notebook’s open too, its pages soft with wear, margins filled with tiny notes and half-thoughts. her handwriting is small and slanted. steady.

one by one, she’s crossing things out.

numbers. percentages. the rigid black text printed beneath “total fat” scribbled through with thick lines of ink like they don’t deserve to matter. like they’re lies, or weapons, or both. she pauses over a box of granola bars, thumb brushing the corner of it like she’s trying to smooth it into something gentler, and then she crosses that one out, too.

a few of the packages have little hearts drawn next to them now. one of them just says “tastes like campfire. warm & sweet.” another has “for movie nights :)” scrawled next to the nutrition label. when the door clicks shut, her face softens as she sees you. the kind of soft that cracks something open.

“hey,” she says, voice low and warm, thumb still resting on the granola bar like it’s something sacred. “i know it’s dumb. i just... didn’t want you to see all the numbers tonight.”

she looks down. exhales. pushes a hand through her hair and stands, slow and steady, then closes the notebook. her fingers brush yours when she passes by — casual, but careful. like she knows.

“let me help you,” she says.

and she says it like a promise. like an anchor. like a hand held out in the dark.