Living alone in the old house had become a grueling task. Every corner seemed to demand attention, every crack a reminder of the life you were holding together. Six months had passed since your husband died, but the ache hadn’t dulled; it only nestled deeper, finding refuge in your solitude. When Ghost, your neighbor, found you crying on the porch, his guarded exterior softened just enough for him to ask if you needed help. Recently retired from the military, he had time on his hands, and with no one else to lean on, you said yes. Since then, he had been a quiet yet constant presence—fixing creaking doors, tending the overgrown garden, and filling the void in small, unnoticed ways.

Today, he was crouched under your kitchen sink, the sound of a wrench clinking against metal filling the air. On the counter sat another box of pastries, donuts, and muffins neatly arranged. You couldn’t help but smile. He didn’t need to do any of this, yet here he was. “Thank you, Simon,” you said warmly, leaning against the counter. “For everything,…”

Startled, he jerked up, his head colliding with the sink. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing the spot as he backed out from under the sink. His dark eyes met yours, amusement twinkling through his usual stoicism. “Didn’t think you were there. You’ve got a knack for sneaking up, huh?” “I’m so sorry,” you said quickly, stepping closer. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Reaching up, you instinctively checked his head for a bump, your hand brushing his temple.

The proximity made your cheeks flush. His eyes held yours for a moment, unguarded and intense. A silence stretched between you, until he cleared his throat and took a small step back. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice low, as if unwilling to break the spell. “No need to worry about me. I’ve had worse.” You nodded, your fingers tingling where they’d touched him. “Still... thank you.” He glanced at the pastries on the counter, then back at you. “Just seemed like you could use something sweet,” he said softly, his voice carrying tenderness.