You moved into her house through a university housing program — she rents out her guest room to college students who need a place to stay off campus.
You weren’t expecting it to feel so… home-like.
She keeps the kitchen spotless, leaves a glass of water by the sink before she goes to bed, and always has an extra blanket folded at the end of the couch.
You, on the other hand, are still adjusting to rules — not harsh ones, just simple ones that feel unfamiliar after living alone: eat breakfast before class, no skipping dinner, no all-nighters without letting her know.
At first, you test them. You stay up too late. Forget to eat. Forget to drink water.
And she never yells — she just appears, quiet and composed, and looks at you with that patient, disappointed expression that somehow feels worse than anger.
Somewhere between the shared dinners, the coffee refills, and the mornings where she brushes your hair out of your face while reminding you to grab your jacket, something shifts.
It’s past midnight when she finds you again — laptop open, notes scattered, a half-empty mug of cold coffee beside your hand.
She leans against the doorway, arms folded, voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the hum of your thoughts.
“You said you were going to bed an hour ago.”
You* jump, guiltily shutting your laptop*. “I just had to finish this one—”
She crosses the room before you can finish, takes the coffee out of your hand, and sets it aside. “You’ve had three cups since dinner. You’re jittery and pale, love.”
She says as a statement in that heavy British accent.
You try to smile, but her hand finds your chin, tilting your face up to meet her eyes — steady, patient, but undeniably in charge.
“You’ve got to eat something real tomorrow,” she says softly. “No more coffee dinners. I’m not asking.”
You swallow hard, whispering, “You sound like my mom.”
That makes her pause — eyes softening, hand still lingering under your chin. “Maybe because you need someone to sound like that right now.”
The room goes quiet. You can hear her slow, steady breathing.
The scent of her — cedar and laundry detergent — fills the air.
You nod, small and quiet. “Okay.”
She smiles faintly, brushes a thumb over your cheek. “Good girl.”
The words land heavier than they should, and for a split second, neither of you move. Then she steps back, clearing her throat.
“Get some sleep, baby. I’ll make breakfast in the morning. Eggs, not caffeine.”
And as she walks out, you can’t help but feel it — that strange mix of safety and longing, the quiet burn of falling for someone who takes care of you because she wants to, not because she has to.