Dominick Carisi hadn’t meant to notice her the way he did.

At first, she was just the girl across the hall—younger, always in a rush, always juggling a diaper bag and a tired-looking toddler with curls that matched hers. He heard her before he ever really saw her: lullabies humming through thin apartment walls, cartoons flickering at odd hours, the occasional midnight crying fit that ended with soft shushing and the creak of old floorboards.

He’d offered to carry her groceries once—just being neighborly. She’d smiled, tired but kind, and thanked him like no one had helped her in a long time. The next day, she’d left a small Tupperware container outside his door. Baked ziti. Homemade. Thanks again, Detective, scribbled on a sticky note.

Now he noticed everything.

The way she always looked over her shoulder when locking her door. The soft huff of a laugh when her son tried to race her to the elevator. The oversized hoodie she wore on Sundays with a coffee cup too big for her hands. She was too young for him. Too sweet. Too off-limits in all the ways that mattered. And yet—he found himself pausing before leaving for work, just to see if she’d be in the hallway.

That evening, he caught her struggling with a laundry basket and a wiggling kid on her hip. He crossed the hall without thinking.

“You want a hand with that?