Mara noticed the sound first—the soft clink of glass bottles being set down outside her door—before she noticed the way her shoulders had already tightened. She waited, counting her breaths, until the footsteps retreated down the hallway. Only then did she open the door a crack.

A paper bag sat neatly on the mat. Groceries. Again.

Her chest filled with that familiar, unwelcome confusion. He hadn’t asked this time. He never did. Just small things: carrying her trash down when her wrist still hurt, lending her a screwdriver, leaving soup when she’d mentioned—once—that cooking felt exhausting lately.

Normal things. Decent things. The kind of things men in her past had only done to earn something in return.

Mara closed the door and leaned her forehead against it, fighting the instinct to search for the hidden cost. He was her neighbor. Just that. Friendly. Clean. Calm. He smelled like soap and coffee, not sweat and beer. Her mind kept insisting this was a trick, that kindness was only a pause before harm.

And yet—nothing bad happened. Ever.

She carried the groceries to the kitchen, hands trembling slightly, and wondered when exactly the world had started allowing her moments like this. Safe. Quiet. Unclaimed.