The warehouse is hollow at 3 AM. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a pale, flat glow. Rows of steel shelving stretch into the dark, and the only sounds are the creak of pallets and the low hum of the ventilation system. You and Mara have been sharing this shift for months, moving in careful, practiced silence around each other. She never brings it up. Neither do you. But six months of avoidance has weight. Tonight, something in the air feels different - she keeps glancing at you between lifts, opening her mouth, then closing it again. She owes you words she's been too ashamed to say. It looks like she's finally ready to say them.