Rachel Ellis got inside, kicked the door shut with her heel—gently, because she still felt the need to earn the building’s approval—and brushed the strange, papery dust that cardboard always somehow collected off her forearms.

  Then she stood very still in the middle of her mostly unfurnished living room and waited for the shame to arrive.

  It did. Right on schedule.

  She had moved into an apartment that cost more monthly than she’d spent on just about anything. Her parents had said it was worth it because it was close to campus and safe and well-managed, and her mother had smiled too brightly while saying it. Rachel had agreed because she was not going to be the reason her mother’s worry grew teeth. She had booked the move-in slot. She had confirmed the policies. She had read the welcome email like it contained a test at the end.

  And yet, within forty-eight hours, she had been defeated by an elevator, a TV mount, and—worst of all—cardboard. Three times, rescued by a man who looked like he belonged in a brochure for adulthood.

  Rachel crossed the room and dropped onto the couch with a gracelessness she would have been horrified to display in public. The couch was, insultingly, the only piece of furniture that had arrived already assembled, so its existence wasn’t even an accomplishment. It had simply shown up, competent and smug, witnessing her failure. Rachel sank into it anyway and let her head tip back against the cushion.

  Across from her, a cardboard box sat on the floor with a picture of a coffee table smiling at her from the side, as if trying to pretend it wasn’t full of screws and judgment.

  Beyond that, her television sat on the wall.

  Clean. Mounted. Finished.

  It should have been a comfort. Instead, it was a reminder.

  She looked at the glossy black screen and saw Noah Bennett standing there with a drill—calm, capable—fixing a problem she hadn’t been able to solve herself. That was the issue, wasn’t it? The TV looked great—perfect, even—but every glance forced her to remember the moment she’d had to admit she was stuck. She remembered the specific heat of embarrassment when she’d realized her pastel “home essentials kit” was not going to cut it against a stud in the wall.

  Rachel stared at the coffee table box and tried to picture herself assembling it alone. She got as far as peeling back one strip of packing tape. The sound—sharp and final—made her stomach tighten. Rachel froze, hand still on the flap, as if the box might lunge.

  She let the tape settle back into place and told herself, with brittle dignity, that this was strategy. Not avoidance. Strategy had a better brand.

  Objectively, it was a one-person job. Probably. But the instructions likely contained words like mallet and diagrams that required spatial reasoning she had currently exhausted.

  Her phone buzzed.

  Rachel sat up too fast—hopeful, and immediately annoyed at herself for being hopeful—and looked down.

  A text from her mother.

  Did you eat?

  Rachel closed her eyes.

  She could almost see her mother’s face, worried in the way that was affectionate and exhausting. Her family loved her. Her family would make the two-hour drive and fix all of this in twenty minutes flat. Her father would bring tools and suggestions; her mother would bring food, softness, and hovering. But her parents weren't the problem. The problem was that Rachel wanted—desperately—to be an adult who didn't require witnesses to her failing.

  Her parents were not the problem.

  The problem was that Rachel wanted—desperately—to be an adult in a way that did not require her parents to witness her failing.

  She typed back: Yes.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Then, after a beat: Busy. Long day :)

  The smiley face felt like a tiny lie she could hold between her teeth.

  She set the phone down and stared at it. The room was quiet in the way that made your own thoughts sound louder.

  Her mind, without asking permission, replayed the lobby.

  Noah—standing there like the human version of a deep breath.

  He was taller than her by a comfortable margin, with dark hair that looked soft without trying to and eyes that held more observation than inquiry. He had the kind of face that didn’t demand attention, until you realized five minutes too late that you’d been paying attention anyway. His voice was dry and even, offering jokes where others would have offered veiled pity, making the solution feel like neutral information rather than a rescue.

  Rachel pressed her palm to her forehead, disappointed in herself for having let her thoughts run that far.

  It was irritating how quickly her brain had decided to categorize him as safe.

  That wasn’t fair. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know anything about him beyond the fact that he lived five feet away and knew his way around King’s Park’s nonsense.

  And yet her brain kept returning to small details—unimportant ones, she told herself, unhelpful ones—like the way he’d moved through the lobby without rushing. Like the calm competence of him saying I can show you and then simply… doing it. No ceremony. No expectation of gratitude.

  Like—

  Rachel’s thoughts snagged on the moment by her door, when the cardboard had toppled in a humiliating avalanche and she’d felt her throat tighten with that familiar, awful heat.

  Noah hadn’t laughed at her. He’d looked at the pile, then at her, and delivered—absurdly solemn—Ah. The sequel.

  Then he’d just… picked up a bundle and started sorting the mess into manageable pieces as if this was a normal problem, not a referendum on her adulthood.

  Rachel remembered, with unfortunate clarity, his hands full of cardboard—how quickly he’d gathered the sharp-edged mess without hesitating, like he trusted his own grip.

  It was just something she noticed, abrupt and inconvenient, but Rachel stopped herself immediately. No. Absolutely not. She refused to sit on her new couch in her overpriced apartment and think about her neighbor’s hands. Nor would she think about the way he’d looked at her earlier.

  She was also not going to think about the way he’d looked at her earlier when he mounted the TV—steady and attentive, like she was a person and not a problem to solve. That was not, in fact, a crime. It was just… unusual.

  Her stomach did that unpleasant little flip again.

  Rachel stared at the coffee table box.

  It stared back.

  Technically, she could assemble it tonight. She could. She had assembled things before. She had followed instructions. She was not incompetent. She was a person with an advanced degree and a job that involved explaining chemical reactions to people who thought goggles were optional.

  And yet the idea of opening that box and spilling a hundred tiny parts onto her floor made her chest tighten.

  If she started and failed, there would be evidence. Visible, tangible proof for when her mother decided to "randomly" drop by, confirming exactly what her anxiety liked to whisper: You don’t belong here. You're pretending.

  Rachel lay back again and sighed toward the ceiling.

  She should eat more, she thought. Or at least throw out the empty noodle container. She should unpack the kitchen. She should do something that made her mother stop worrying and made herself stop feeling like she was balancing on a thin wire between competence and collapse.

  Her phone buzzed again.

  Rachel grabbed it too quickly and then pretended she hadn’t.

  Another text from her mother.

  Did you meet anyone? Any neighbors?

  Rachel stared at the message.

  Her thumb hovered.

  She could tell her mother. It would be harmless. It would be normal. It would be exactly the kind of thing her mother wanted: proof that Rachel wasn’t alone in a strange building and that someone would notice if she vanished into parking level two.

  Rachel typed: Yeah. Guy across the hall. Seems nice.

  She hit send before she could overthink it.

  Immediately she regretted it, because now Noah existed in her mother’s universe, and her mother’s universe was full of questions.

  Rachel tossed the phone onto the couch and watched it land face-down like it was ashamed too.

  She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and looked at the coffee table box again. She could do it, she told herself. She could. She could open it. She could lay out the parts. She could follow the instructions. She could make a piece of furniture exist.

  Her hands did not move.

  Instead, her gaze drifted back to the mounted television and the memory of Noah’s tools.

  Rachel swallowed.

  Her mind returned—annoyingly, stubbornly—to the calm presence of her neighbor in the lobby.

  She told herself, firmly, that this was because he was practical. Because he had lived here longer and knew where things went. Because he had information she lacked, and information was the one kind of help that didn’t make her feel small.

  It certainly wasn't because he made the building feel less like a test and more like a starting block. And it definitely wasn't because his dry little line—My humiliation has served a purpose—had made her laugh in the moment and was still making the corners of her mouth twitch now.

  Rachel sat in the quiet apartment and stared at her half-unpacked life.

  She was fine. She was just… going to need to learn where things went.

  And if Noah Bennett happened to know where some of those things went—

  Rachel exhaled, slow and controlled, as if the thought itself needed managing.

  That was not a problem.

  That was, she told herself, temporary.