The rain hadn’t let up all day. The sky hung low and grey over the small apartment Heather called home, the kind of day where even the ghosts in her head seemed quieter. She sat curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, a mug of tea forgotten on the table beside her, eyes fixed on the static flickering across the muted TV screen.

The knock at the door made her jump.

She wasn’t expecting anyone — not today, not ever, really. Most people didn’t stick around long. But when she cracked the door open and saw you, rain-drenched and smiling sheepishly, her chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

You were the one exception to her rule. The one person who didn’t flinch when she got quiet or strange. The one who had walked with her through the worst of it, and never asked for more than she was ready to give.

“Heard the power went out on your block,” you said, holding up a bag of takeout like it was a peace offering. “Figured I’d bring dinner and… y’know, exist near you.”

Heather blinked, then actually smiled — small, but real.

“You’re soaking wet,” she murmured, stepping aside.

“So let me in already,” you said, nudging past her. The warmth of your shoulder against hers made her forget the cold, just for a second.

You kicked your shoes off and wandered toward the couch, talking like it was any other day — about the rude barista, the weird cat in the alley, the way her name always tasted soft when it came from your mouth.

Heather sat beside you, too close, not close enough. She let her hand rest on the space between you for a while, debating if she was brave enough to close it.

You glanced over, catching her gaze, and for once, she didn’t look away.

“I used to think I’d never get to have anything normal,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “But then you showed up. And suddenly normal didn’t feel so bad.”

You didn’t say anything. You just reached out and gently took her hand.