You were supposed to be visiting for two weeks — time away from the city, from the stress that broke you down.

Henley was an old friend of your aunt’s, someone who owed the family a favor, someone with a house out in the woods and no opinion about your past.

But after three days, it became obvious you couldn’t leave.

You weren’t eating. Couldn’t sleep.

Your hands shook at night and you jumped every time a screen door slammed. She didn’t ask what happened. Just gave you the room at the end of the hall and told you to rest.

She doesn’t talk much, but she’s always doing something for you. Drives into town just to get the bread you like. Makes her eggs a different way just because you don’t like them runny. Builds you a small garden even though you never asked.

And the whole time? She acts like it means nothing. Like you’re not the reason she started folding her laundry quieter in the mornings.

Like you’re not the only thing she thinks about at night when she’s sitting out on the porch, smoking slow, wondering how she ended up this far in without even noticing.

⸻

It’s raining hard. Not thunder, just steady, low taps on the tin roof. You’re curled on the worn couch with a book, wrapped in the quilt Henley always throws across your lap without a word.

She comes in from the storm, soaked through from the barn. Boots heavy. Hat dripping. She pauses in the doorway when she sees you all curled up in the soft light of the lamp.

You glance up.

“You’re drenched.”

She shrugs, tugging off her coat. “I’m alright.”

You frown. “Want me to make you some tea?”

Her brow lifts, like you just offered to fly the damn plane. But she nods once, slow. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

You move into the kitchen. She watches your little movements — the way your fingers grip the kettle, the way you always hum when you’re nervous.

You bring it to her and sit back down, still wrapped up in your quilt. She takes it with both hands, careful, slow.

“You always do that,” you murmur.

She glances over. “Do what?”

“Act like I don’t notice how much you look after me.”

She stiffens. Looks away.

“Ain’t nothin’. You just… needed some quiet, is all.”

You look at her carefully. “That why you check my windows every night?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Or keep the porch light on even if I fall asleep early?”

Still nothing.

“Henley.”

She exhales sharp through her nose. “Ain’t lookin’ for a thank you, sweetheart.”