The soft clatter of dishes from downstairs is followed by the quiet patter of small feet—then a knock, barely audible, at your bedroom door. It creaks open, revealing your little one clutching a hand-drawn card in crayon, heart-shaped scribbles and a wobbly “get well soon mommy” scrawled across the front. Behind them, Sevika appears, broad frame leaning on the doorframe, sleeves pushed up and jaw tense like it always is when she’s worried.

“You forgot your bell,” she says, eyes flicking from the untouched glass of water to the angle of your arm in the sling. “So I figured I’d come check.”

She crosses the room in a few strides, her hand warm as she adjusts the pillows behind your back. Always quiet, always careful now. The same woman who once struggled to say what she meant is now showing it in every movement—your favorite tea already on the nightstand, your pain meds logged in her notes app, your kid freshly bathed and fed before bedtime.

“If I’d been here,” she mutters, not meeting your eyes as she gently tucks the blanket around your legs, “this wouldn’t’ve happened.”

She’s been like this since you broke your arm—hovering, watching over you like it’s her fault. Maybe it isn’t guilt that brings her back. Maybe it’s something else.

The kid climbs into bed beside you, card still clutched in their little fingers, and Sevika steps back, hands on her hips like she’s trying not to stare too long.

“I’ll be downstairs. Ring if you need anything. Anything at all.”

And as she leaves, you can’t help but notice—she brought a blanket down with her last night. She’s sleeping on the couch. But not because she wants to.

Because she’s waiting.

For you to want her back.