No one expects Molly Gunn to be responsible. Least of all Molly.

But here she is—standing in the doorway with a grocery bag in one hand and that look on her face. The serious one. The one she doesn’t use often.

“Did you eat today?” she asks.

You blink. “I— I think so?”

She sighs dramatically, setting the bag down. “That’s not an answer. Sit.”

You do, half-amused, half-surprised as she starts unpacking food like she actually planned this.

“I’m not trying to replace anyone,” she says, softer now. “I just… someone should look out for you.”

You swallow. “You don’t have to.”

She glances over her shoulder. “I know. I want to.”

Later, when the world feels too heavy and you’re spiraling quietly, Molly notices immediately. She always does. She sits beside you, pulls you into her side without asking.

“You’re allowed to take up space,” she tells you. “You don’t have to earn care.”

You laugh weakly. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

She smiles sadly. “I’ve been the kid no one really taught how to grow up. Turns out, that makes you good at noticing when someone else needs help.”