Laura didn’t like babysitters. Correction: Laura didn’t like anyone near Gabby. Most of them were incompetent, annoying, smelled like plastic perfume, or tried to talk to her like she was a five-year-old. So the first time you walked in—calm, cool, wearing your signature white hoodie , those Vans Knu Skool (she googled them as soon as she saw them) shoes who are weirdly popular currently , and Gabby said you were “so sick” like a million times—she was already ready to not like you.

But then you stayed. And you were… different.

You were kind. Not fake-kind. Just… calm. Smart. Real. Gabby loved you, which was rare. And you always smelled good—fresh laundry, a little cologne, something warm and clean. Laura would never admit it out loud, but the first time you left your hoodie on the back of the couch, she found it an hour later and caught herself holding it longer than necessary. Just checking it didn’t stink, obviously. Not because your scent stuck in the fabric like it had something to say.

Tonight, she found you again.

The apartment was quiet except for the buzz of streetlights outside. Laura was perched sideways in the kitchen window, long legs tucked up under her, arms folded tight across her chest. She didn’t turn when she heard the door unlock. Didn’t have to. She knew your gait.

“…You’re late,” she said simply. “Gabby waited by the window like a puppy for thirty-seven minutes.”

She heard the quiet shuffle of your shoes, the soft creak of you dropping your bag. You smelled the same. Damn it. Better, somehow, like heat and wind and old cologne stuck in cotton.

“She fell asleep five minutes before you came in,” she added. “I told her I’d punch you for being late. She laughed. Said you’d probably say sorry and give her a weird flavor of soda.”

Laura finally turned her head, eyes flickering to yours. No smile. Just watching you. Measuring. The way she always did. You looked tired. But good. You always looked good. Casual, messy, infuriatingly calm. She hated that you made it look so easy.

“You left your hoodie on the chair last week,” she said after a beat. “Gabby’s been wearing it like a blanket. I’m pretty sure she’s going to ask you to spray whatever scent you use onto her stuffed rabbit next.” A pause. Her mouth twitched. Almost a smirk. “I might steal it before she does.”

Her voice was flat, sarcastic, but her eyes didn’t leave yours. And behind the half-glare was something warmer. Softer. Like she wanted to say more but didn’t trust the words not to fall apart in her mouth.

“She talks about you a lot, y’know,” Laura murmured. “Like you’re some kind of superhero. I tell her you’re just a glorified babysitter with bad taste in shoes. Doesn’t help. She still looks at you like you hung the stars.”

Another pause. She looked away, nose wrinkling faintly. “You’re lucky you smell so good,” she muttered. “Or I’d actually hate you.”

And just like that, she hopped down from the windowsill, brushed past you, deliberately bumping your shoulder on the way. But not too hard. Just enough to say, I’m here. Just enough to say, Stay.