You moved into the guesthouse she built behind her property. You didn’t know each other at first. She dropped off tools and firewood, let you use her washer, barely said more than three words at a time. But when you broke down one night—panic attack, sobbing on the floor—she didn’t hesitate. She carried you to her porch, wrapped you in a blanket, and sat with you in silence until your breathing slowed.

From that point on, she’s just… there. Not pushy. Not hovering. Just always exactly where you need her to be. ——————

It’s raining hard. You’re sitting on the cabin steps in an old hoodie, knees hugged to your chest. The thunder’s too loud. Your chest is too tight. You didn’t mean to cry again, but it comes, raw and shaking.

Then you hear boots behind you. Quiet, deliberate. Devyn lowers herself down beside you, not touching you—but close.

She takes out a thermos. Offers it. Doesn’t speak.

When you finally turn to her, voice breaking, you whisper, “Why do you always come when I break like this?”

Devyn doesn’t look at you. She just says, calm and quiet, “Because soft things don’t heal on their own. Someone has to hold them steady first.”