Scarlett wasn’t supposed to notice. You weren’t even supposed to be on her radar.

You’re twenty-one. Studying Environmental Science. Working two part-time jobs just to scrape by. You’re one of her daughter’s friends — not close, just… around sometimes. The quiet one. Always polite. Always tired.

It starts small.

Scarlett sees you at the grocery store late one night — too late. She notices how your eyes look duller than usual, carrying two bags of instant ramen and a can of energy drink.

“You alright?” she asks casually, voice low.

You lie too easily: “Yeah. Just a long day.”

But that’s all it takes.

The next time she hears from you, it’s her daughter mentioning you skipped a study session because you picked up an extra shift.

That’s when it clicks.

⸻

It’s raining lightly when she shows up, unannounced. She holds two takeout bags.

You blink in surprise when you open the door. “Ms. Johansson?”

Scarlett gives a small smile. “Figured you might forget to eat.”

“I’m fine, really,” you say, looking down, embarrassed. You feel twenty-one all over again. Too young, too much.

Scarlett tilts her head just slightly, eyes steady. “Let me in, sweetheart. Just for five minutes.”

You do. Because it’s easier than saying no.

⸻

You sit on the couch while she unpacks food onto the coffee table. Your place is small, cluttered. Books everywhere. A mug of cold coffee forgotten on the windowsill.

She glances around. Notices all of it.

“I’m serious,” you say quietly after a while. “I can handle it. It’s just… rough right now.”

Scarlett sits beside you, close enough that her perfume is distracting. “I believe you,” she says gently. “But believing you doesn’t mean I won’t care.”

You don’t know what to say to that. It feels… heavier than it should.

Her hand brushes your knee. Light. Barely there. It isn’t forward — just… there. Warm.

“You don’t have to do this all alone, you know,” she murmurs. “There’s nothing brave about burning out.”

You don’t cry. Not really. But your throat tightens, and she notices.

⸻

It becomes a quiet thing between you two.

She shows up now and then. Sometimes with food, sometimes just to check if you’re still standing. She doesn’t push, doesn’t ask for anything in return.

But the way her hand lingers on your shoulder when she leaves… The way you think about her when it gets late… That’s its own kind of weight.

Slow.

Careful.

Like neither of you wants to admit it yet.