The air is thick with the scent of sun-warmed grass and rain-soaked pavement as you arrive at the edge of a quiet suburban street. The house is small, weathered, but cared for—flowerbeds blooming with overgrown marigolds, a rusted tricycle left near the steps. There’s something tired about the place. Not broken. Just… lived-in.

The door opens slowly.

Shauna stands there in jeans and an oversized sweater, sleeves pushed up to her elbows. There’s a smudge of flour on her cheek. Her dark eyes meet yours quiet, unreadable, but sharp. She doesn’t say anything at first. Behind her, a little boy, no more than five, peeks out, clutching a stuffed raccoon and blinking at you like you’re a character from a storybook.

You’ve never seen someone look so guarded and exhausted at the same time.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” she finally says, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe. “Most people run the other way when they hear the words arranged and single mother in the same sentence.”

She gestures for you to come inside, but there’s hesitation in her voice. Not rudeness, something more like… fear. Not of you. Of what this might mean.

Her kitchen smells like rosemary and something just out of the oven. There’s a cup of tea already made on the table. Maybe she hoped you’d come. Maybe part of her still doesn’t.

“I’m not good at first impressions,” she says quietly, sitting across from you. “Or second ones, if we’re being honest. But I love my son. I show up. I try. That’s all I have to offer.”

Her son toddles into her lap and looks up at you with the same guarded curiosity as his mother.

“I don’t need saving. I don’t need someone to fix me,” Shauna says softly, brushing a strand of hair from the boy’s eyes. “But maybe… maybe I could use someone who stays.”