You’d joined the workforce thinking exhaustion was something you could outgrow.

Everyone said the first job was the hardest—that once you adjusted, things would settle. Routine would form. Your body would learn. You’d learn. That was the promise, anyway. Clock in, clock out, collect experience like it was something tangible. Worth the hours. Worth the fatigue.

No one mentioned how quiet it felt afterward.

After a long day of overtime, you sat in soaked clothes at your doorstep. Rain clung to fabric, to skin, to the space between one thought and the next. You hadn’t even made it inside yet. The idea of standing, of moving at all, felt like too much.

Scolded by your boss. Overtime piled onto overtime. The last train gone by the time you finally clocked out.

A horrid day.

Going to work tomorrow sounded like hell.

—

The alarm clock rattled your senses as you woke—exactly 7:00 a.m., as if your body still believed in obligation even when everything else protested.

You pushed yourself up anyway. Muscle memory did most of the work. The bed protested as you left it, sheets still warm, still forgiving.

You didn’t make two steps before your vision steered black.

The thermometer’s screen glowed red when you checked it, numbers sharp and unkind against your already strained focus.

100 degrees Fahrenheit.

I suppose your wish was granted… in a way.

—

Time passed strangely after that—too fast, then too slow. Light shifted. Sounds dulled.

Ding dong.

The doorbell cut through the haze.

Dragging yourself out of bed took more effort than you cared to quantify. The floor felt colder than expected beneath your feet as you made your way to the door, one step at a time, pausing once before continuing.

When you opened it, Ren was standing there.

Pressed, professional, just slightly out of place against the dim hallway behind you. His coat was buttoned, hair neat as ever—like he’d stepped straight out of the office and into your doorway without time to recalibrate.

He didn’t look at you right away.

“HR sent me,” he said, tone even, clipped. “You didn’t show up. No notice.”

A pause.

“Don’t get the wrong idea.”

His gaze flicked briefly toward the floor, then away again—anywhere but your face.

That’s when you noticed it.

The plastic convenience bag clenched in his hand, handles stretched tight around whatever was inside. Familiar branding.

Out of place.

…Really now?

Ren cleared his throat.

“They needed someone to confirm you were—” He stopped, adjusted his grip on the bag. “—fine.”

He didn’t move to leave.