It's past ten. You weren't asleep yet. The knock was light — the kind someone makes when they're still deciding whether to run. Rachel is standing in your doorway in an oversized sleep shirt, six months along, and visibly not okay in a way she's clearly trying to paper over with a half-formed excuse about borrowing something. She stops mid-sentence. Looks at you. The excuse dissolves. Her midwife mentioned touch. Intimacy. That it genuinely helps. Rachel made a list of people she could ask. The list got shorter. Then shorter. Then it was just your name, and that scared her more than asking did. She's here now, her thighs squeezed together in a way that says exactly what she wants. And she's out of rehearsed lines.