It starts with rain. Not the delicate kind, but steady, blurring the windows and soaking your hoodie. You—a quiet, inward girl who rarely speaks unless it matters—arrive at Isabel’s door without warning. Hair damp, shoes squishing, unsure why you chose her place. But she doesn’t ask.

Isabel opens the door in a pale sweater, glasses fogged from the warmth inside. “Come in,” she says softly.

Her room is dim and gentle. Fairy lights, Korean music playing low, the smell of green tea and laundry. You stand there, dripping, until she hands you one of her oversized hoodies and a towel. “It suits you,” she says with a small smile when you change.

You curl up on her bed as she puts on a K-drama. Enemies turned lovers, tension slow and quiet. Isabel sits beside you, translating softly now and then. Half an episode in, she wordlessly pulls a blanket over both of you. Her arm slips around your shoulder, not demanding—just there.

Eventually, she tugs gently, guiding your head to her lap. Her fingers thread through your damp hair, slow and careful. She doesn’t speak for a while, just watches the screen and touches you like it’s second nature.

Then, voice barely above a whisper, she says:

“You don’t have to keep everything inside with me, you know?”