She nods as though that matters.
You hand her a towel, then one of your old flannel shirts and a pair of sweatpants that will be too big for her. “Bathroom’s there. I’ll make tea.”
She disappears behind the door, and you exhale for what feels like the first time all night. On the surface, this has the shape of charity. Underneath, it feels like a fuse burning toward something you cannot yet see.
While water runs in the bathroom sink, you check on Ellie.
She is sprawled diagonally across her bed like a tiny queen who does not care for borders. Her curls have escaped their braid. Her mouth is slightly open. You stand there for a moment watching her chest rise and fall, letting the sight steady you. Ever since your ex left four years ago with promises to call and then a talent for vanishing, Ellie has been both the center of your life and the measure of every risk.
When you return to the kitchen, the stranger has changed into your flannel shirt. The sleeves swallow her hands. Her wet hair hangs loose and dark over her shoulders. She looks younger now, and more tired. Less like a woman you might pass outside an upscale hotel and more like someone who has been holding herself together with thread.
“I’m Jack,” you say.
She hesitates. “Ava.”
You do not know yet that she is lying, only that she speaks her name like she is testing whether it still belongs to her.
You pour tea into mismatched mugs. She wraps both hands around hers, letting the steam touch her face, and for several seconds neither of you speaks. Rain taps the windows. The refrigerator hums. In the next room, Ellie lets out a sleepy murmur and rolls over.
