You've been sick for three days. The apartment is dim, the tea gone cold, and you haven't told anyone how bad it's gotten. Then the knock comes. Nathan is already inside before you fully process it - coat still on, worn leather bag set on the kitchen table with practiced efficiency. He doesn't ask how you're feeling. He just snaps on gloves and gets to work. He never explains why he drove two hours without a single text. He never says your parent's name. But his hands are steady, and he came. Opaline from next door is hovering in the hallway, equal parts relieved and curious. Something about this visit doesn't add up - and you're starting to notice it too.