My apartment wasn't much to look at, but it was functional. One bedroom, open living and kitchen area, bathroom with all the accessibility modifications I needed. The building was newer, with wider doorways and an elevator that worked more often than not. Not exactly a bachelor pad showpiece, but it was mine.

I hadn't planned on having company when I'd agreed to let Isla join me for laundry day. My place wasn't messy, exactly. More lived-in. Books stacked on every surface. Design work spread across the coffee table. A half-empty mug from that morning still sitting on the kitchen counter.

I considered cleaning up before she arrived, then decided against it. This was who I was. If she couldn't handle a little clutter, we had bigger problems.

She showed up fifteen minutes early, arms laden with grocery bags. Her hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, and she wore jeans and an oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder. No makeup. No pretense. Just Isla.

"I brought provisions," she announced, sweeping past me into the apartment. "Chips, dip, cookies, and these weird cheese puff things that looked disgusting but the guy at the store swore were addictive." She paused, looking around. "Nice place."

"It's nothing special."

"It's very you." She set the bags on the counter. "Organized chaos. I like it."

I locked the door and followed her into the kitchen, watching as she unpacked her "provisions" with the same enthusiasm she brought to everything. She moved through my space like she belonged there, opening cabinets to find bowls for the snacks, asking where I kept glasses for the drinks she'd brought.

"So where's the laundry?" she asked, popping a chip into her mouth. "I was promised dirty clothes, and I don't see any."

"In the bedroom. I was sorting when you knocked."

"Lead the way."

I hesitated. No one besides Theo and my family had been in my bedroom since the accident. It felt strangely intimate, letting her into that space. But she was already moving in that direction, so I wheeled ahead to show her in.

My bedroom was simpler than the rest of the apartment. Bed, nightstand, dresser. A stack of books on the floor. Clothes in three piles on the bed—darks, lights, and towels.

"That's it?" she asked, eyeing the piles. "I expected more, given the build-up."

"Sorry to disappoint."

"I'll survive." She picked up the darks pile. "Where's your machine?"

"Down the hall. Shared laundry room."

She nodded, grabbing the detergent from my dresser. "Let's do this. I haven't had a good laundry date since... well, ever, actually. Can't say I've ever had a laundry date before."

"This is a first for me too."

"We're making history here, Rhodes. Laundry date pioneers."

The shared laundry room was empty when we arrived, all four machines available. Isla insisted on loading the washers, claiming it was "part of the experience." I let her, amused by how she turned such a mundane task into something bordering on entertaining.

"You separate your clothes like a serial killer," she informed me as she stuffed the dark load into the first machine. "Everything perfectly sorted. Very methodical."

"Should I be throwing them in randomly?"

"I toss everything in together. Life's too short for multiple loads."

"Even reds with whites?"

She waved dismissively. "Everything I own is already multiple colors from past laundry experiments. It adds character."

I couldn't help but smile. That was so perfectly Isla. Unconcerned with rules or expectations, embracing the chaos instead of fighting it.

With the washers running, we returned to my apartment. Isla immediately claimed a spot on my couch, tucking her legs beneath her and reaching for the bowl of chips she'd prepared.

"So this is what Callum Rhodes does on his weekends," she mused, looking around. "Laundry and..." she gestured to the design work on the coffee table. "Work?"

"Sometimes."

"Thrilling." She grinned to take the sting out of her words. "What else? When you're not being productive and responsible and all that?"

I shrugged, transferring from my chair to the couch beside her. "Read. Watch TV. Normal stuff."

"Do you ever do abnormal stuff? Like, I don't know, impromptu karaoke or skinny dipping or trying to break into abandoned buildings?"

"Can't say I've ever broken into an abandoned building." I reached for a chip. "You have?"

"Once or twice. In my wild youth." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "There was this old factory outside my hometown. Everyone said it was haunted. So naturally, I had to check it out."

"Naturally."

"It wasn't haunted. Just full of rats and tetanus risks." She stretched her legs out, her feet ending up inches from my thigh. "But it was exciting, you know? That feeling of doing something a little dangerous, a little forbidden."

"I used to get that feeling every time I got on my bike." The admission slipped out before I could think better of it. "Every jump, every race. That edge of fear, knowing one mistake could mean disaster."

She studied me for a moment. "You miss it."

"Every day."

She nodded, not offering empty platitudes or suggestions for replacement activities. Just acknowledgment. It was refreshing.

"Have you thought about coaching?" she asked after a moment. "Passing on your knowledge to the next generation of disaster-courting adrenaline junkies?"

I hadn't, actually. The idea had never occurred to me. "I'm not exactly the coaching type."

"Why not? You know the sport. You understand the technique, the risks. You've lived both the high and the low of it." She leaned forward. "Plus, you're patient. Observant. Good at explaining things."

"You don't know that."

"Sure I do. I've seen you talk about your work, about books. You break things down, make them clear without talking down to people." She tilted her head. "Just something to think about."

And I did think about it, rolling the idea around in my mind as our conversation drifted to other topics. Could I do that? Go back to the tracks, the places I'd once ridden, in a different capacity? The thought was both appealing and terrifying.

The afternoon passed in a comfortable blur. We retrieved the laundry, folded it while arguing about the merits of various TV shows, ordered pizza when we got hungry. Isla commanded space in a way that should have been intrusive but somehow wasn't. She asked questions about the photos on my shelves, the art on my walls, the books I kept closest to hand.

It was the most normal I'd felt in years. Just a guy and a girl, hanging out on a Saturday, doing ordinary things. No pitying glances. No careful navigations around difficult topics. No unspoken tensions.

Well, almost no tensions. There was still that undercurrent between us, the awareness that we were dancing around something neither of us was ready to name. But for now, it was enough to be in the same space, sharing the same air, laughing at the same jokes.

As evening fell, Isla helped me put the last of the laundry away, then glanced at her watch. "I should probably head home. Early shift tomorrow."

"I can drive you," I offered, surprising myself.

She hesitated. "You don't have to. I can catch the bus."

"It's getting late. The buses run less frequently on weekends."

She bit her lip, considering. "Okay. If you're sure it's not too much trouble."

"It's not. Your home this time?" I asked, watching her reaction. "Not your friend's place?"

"Yeah. My place."

She gathered her things while I grabbed my keys. Outside, the air was cool, stars just beginning to appear in the darkening sky. I unlocked my car, went through the familiar routine of transferring from chair to driver's seat, breaking down the chair to stow in the back.

Isla slid into the passenger seat this time rather than the back, her scent—something floral but not overpowering—filling the small space.

"Thanks for today," she said as I pulled onto the street. "I had fun. Who knew laundry could be a social activity?"

"It was... nice." The word felt inadequate, but I couldn't find a better one.

"High praise from Callum Rhodes." She grinned. "I'll mark this day on my calendar. 'The day laundry was deemed nice.'"

"You're ridiculous."

"Part of my charm."

She was right about that. Her ability to find joy in the mundane, to turn even the most ordinary tasks into something worth smiling about, was unlike anything I'd encountered before. It was as if she'd decided long ago that if life was going to be hard, she would find the light wherever she could.

"Which way?" I asked as we approached an intersection.

"Left here, then right on Maple." She pointed vaguely ahead. "It's not far."

I followed her directions, noting how she tensed slightly as we drove, her eyes scanning the streets as if looking for something. Or someone.

"You can take Pine to get to Elm," I suggested, referring to her street.

"No," she said too quickly. "I mean, there's construction that way. Better to go around."

There was no construction on Pine that I knew of, but I didn't argue.

It was a longer route than necessary, but I followed her directions. As we drove, I noticed her grip tightening on the door handle whenever we passed certain streets or buildings. Her body language shifted, shoulders hunching, like she was trying to make herself smaller.

We were approaching the intersection of 4th and Elm when a car backfired somewhere nearby. The sound was loud, and Isla flinched violently, her entire body going rigid.

"You okay?" I asked, glancing at her.

"Fine." Her voice was strained. "Just... startled me."

But she wasn't fine. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the door handle, and her breathing had quickened. Whatever that sound had triggered, it wasn't just a simple startle response.

I turned onto Elm and immediately understood why she'd been directing me so carefully. This part of town was worse than I'd realized. The buildings were rundown, many with boarded windows or graffiti-covered walls. A group of men loitered on one corner, eyeing my car as we passed. The few streetlights that worked cast sickly yellow pools on the cracked sidewalks.

"Just up here on the right," Isla said, pointing to a dilapidated building that looked barely habitable.

I pulled to the curb and stared at the structure. Peeling paint. Crumbling concrete steps. A door that appeared to be held together more by hope than hinges. Nothing like her friend's building I'd dropped her at before.

"Is this... you live here?" I couldn't keep the disbelief from my voice.

"Home sweet home." She unbuckled her seatbelt but made no move to get out. "Thanks for the ride."

"Isla, this place is falling apart."

She shrugged, not meeting my eyes. "Rent's cheap. And the inside isn't as bad as the outside."

I doubted that very much. "There has to be somewhere better. Somewhere safer."

"Where else would I go?" There was something in her voice when she said it, a resignation that cut through her usual brightness. "Not many options when you're one paycheck away from broke."

The way she said it, like it was just an accepted part of her reality, made something twist in my chest. This was where she lived, where she spent her nights. Alone in a crumbling building in a neighborhood that made my skin crawl.

"You could—" I stopped myself. What was I going to suggest? That she find a better place? As if she hadn't thought of that. That she move in with me? We weren't even dating, according to her.

"You could what?"

"Nothing." I shook my head. "Just... be careful."

Her smile was tired but genuine. "Always am." She leaned over and, in a move that caught me completely off guard, pressed a quick kiss to my cheek. "Thanks for today, Callum."

Before I could respond, she was out of the car and hurrying up the broken steps to the entrance. She paused at the door, gave me a small wave, then disappeared inside.

I sat there for a long moment, staring at the building, unable to reconcile the vibrant, sunshine-filled woman I'd spent the day with and this dismal place she called home. It didn't fit. Nothing about it made sense.

Why would someone who took such joy in life, who seemed to radiate light from within, choose to live in such darkness? Was it really just financial constraints, or was there something else? Something to do with the way she'd flinched at certain streets, the careful route she'd mapped to avoid parts of the city?

I thought of the ex-boyfriend she'd mentioned. The one who'd hurt her so badly she'd tried to end her life. The one she'd run from. Was she still running? Still hiding?

The questions circled in my mind as I finally put the car in gear and pulled away. I wanted to go back, to insist she grab her things and come stay with me, where it was safe. But I had no right. We weren't together. We were just... whatever we were. Friends who sometimes held each other's gazes too long. Friends who shared secrets in the dark. Friends who were afraid to want more.

I was halfway home when my phone chimed with a text. I waited until I was stopped at a light to check it.

Isla: Made it inside safe and sound. Thanks again for today. Next weekend, my turn to host a wildly exciting activity. How do you feel about painting ceramic animals?

Her text was so normal, so Isla, that it made the knot in my chest tighten further. How did she do that? Live in a place like that and still find the energy to be bright, to make jokes, to think about next weekend's plans?

I pulled into my apartment complex still thinking about her building, her neighborhood, the way she'd directed me through the city. Something was off, and I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to her living situation than simple financial constraints.

Inside my apartment, everything looked different. The space that had felt comfortably lived-in just hours ago now seemed excessive. I had so much that I took for granted, while she was living in conditions I wouldn't have accepted for a day.

I texted her back.

Me: Sounds thrilling. I'm in.

Her response came almost immediately.

Isla: Excellent! Prepare to be amazed by my complete lack of artistic talent.

I smiled despite my lingering concern. That was Isla, finding humor even in her shortcomings. I wanted to ask her more about her apartment, about why she lived there, but I knew it wasn't the right time. Not over text, at least.

Me: I'm sure you'll manage to make it interesting.

Isla: Oh, I always do. It's my superpower, remember? Making mundane things marginally less boring.

Me: You're good at it.

Isla: High praise from the man who deemed laundry "nice." I'm practically blushing.

I stared at my phone, trying to reconcile the woman sending these cheerful texts with the reality of where she was sitting as she typed them. The disconnect was jarring.

Isla: Getting sleepy. Early shift tomorrow. Goodnight, Callum. Sweet dreams.

Me: Goodnight, Isla. Sleep well.

I doubted she would, in that place. I certainly wouldn't.

I must have dozed off eventually, because I woke to sunlight streaming through my blinds and a text from Theo asking if I wanted to grab lunch. I agreed, partly because I was hungry and partly because I needed someone to talk to about what I'd seen.

We met at our usual diner, a place with wide aisles and tables I could easily navigate to. Theo was already there when I arrived, sipping coffee and scrolling through his phone.

"You look like shit," he greeted me.

"Good to see you too."

"Rough night?"

I shrugged, not ready to dive into it yet. "Something like that."

We ordered, made small talk about work and sports and Theo's latest dating disaster. It wasn't until our food arrived that he fixed me with a knowing look.

"So, you going to tell me what's actually bothering you, or are we going to pretend this is just about work stress?"

I pushed my eggs around on my plate. "I saw where Isla lives yesterday."

"And?"

"And it's a shithole. Worse than that. It's dangerous."

Theo frowned. "How bad are we talking?"

"Bad enough that I'm worried about her being there alone. Bad enough that she had to direct me through the city to avoid certain areas."

"Rough neighborhood?"

"The worst. And she just... accepts it. Like it's normal to live in a place where the front door is hanging off its hinges."

Theo studied me for a moment. "And this bothers you because...?"

"Because she deserves better," I said. "Because I don't understand why someone like her would choose to live that way."

"Maybe she doesn't have a choice."

"There are always choices." Even as I said it, I knew it wasn't that simple. "She works full-time. She's smart, capable. She could find something better."

"Could she? In this housing market, on a bookstore salary?" Theo shook his head. "Not everyone has the same options, Cal."

"I know that." I pushed my plate away, appetite gone. "But there's something else going on. She was on edge the whole drive. Flinched at certain streets, tensed up at a car backfiring. It felt like she was... I don't know, hiding or something."

Theo's expression softened. "You think this has to do with her ex? The one she told you about?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

"Have you asked her?"

"No."

"Maybe you should."

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. "It's not that simple. We're not... we don't..."

"You're not dating. Yeah, you've mentioned that." Theo sipped his coffee. "But you care about her. Obviously. And she seems to care about you. So maybe it's time for an actual conversation about what's going on."

"What if she shuts down again? Every time I get close to something real, she pulls back."

"So she's scared. Aren't you?"

The question caught me off guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've been doing the same thing for four years. Keeping people at arm's length, never letting anyone get too close. Afraid of what happens if they actually stick around."

"That's different."

"Is it?" Theo leaned forward. "Look, I'm not saying you need to propose or anything. But if you're worried about her, tell her. Be honest. The worst that happens is she pulls away, which is what you're afraid of anyway. But maybe she won't."

I knew he was right, but the thought of having that conversation made my stomach knot. What would I even say? I think you're living in a dangerous situation and I'm worried about you? She'd shut down immediately. Or worse, she'd laugh it off, make a joke, change the subject like she always did when things got too real.

"I'll think about it," I said finally.

"That's a start." Theo signaled for the check. "So, when do I get to meet this not-girlfriend of yours properly? A quick hello at a restaurant doesn't count."

"She's not my anything."

"Sure." His tone made it clear he didn't believe me. "But seriously, bring her to dinner at Mom's next week. She's been asking about 'the bookstore girl' for a month now."

The idea of bringing Isla to Marge's was simultaneously appealing and terrifying. "I'll ask her."

"Good." Theo stood, dropping cash on the table. "And Cal? Whatever's going on with her living situation, remember she's a grown woman who's been taking care of herself for a long time. Don't go charging in thinking you need to save her. That's not what she needs from you."

His words stayed with me the rest of the day. He was right, of course. Isla didn't need saving. She'd survived foster care, an abusive relationship, her own suicide attempt, and who knew what else. She was strong, resilient in a way I could only admire.

But that didn't mean she had to face everything alone. That didn't mean she had to live in a place where she didn't feel safe.

I thought about texting her, asking her directly about her living situation, but it felt too invasive over the phone. This was a conversation that needed to happen face to face, when I could see her reactions, gauge whether I was pushing too hard.

Instead, I texted: Had a good time yesterday. Looking forward to next weekend.

Her response came an hour later.

Isla: Me too! Prepare to be dazzled by ceramic animals of questionable artistic merit.

The normalcy of our exchange both reassured and unsettled me. How could she be so normal, so bright, while living in conditions like that? How much effort did it take to maintain that façade of cheerfulness?

I tried to distract myself with work, but my mind kept circling back to her. To the dilapidated building. To the way she'd flinched at that backfiring car. To her casual dismissal of my concern.

Where else would I go?

Those words haunted me. As if she believed that was all she deserved. As if she couldn't imagine anything better for herself.

By Monday, I'd made a decision. I wouldn't push, wouldn't demand answers. But I would pay attention. Would watch for the signs I'd missed before. Would try to understand what was really going on with her.

Because something was. And while I might not have the right to interfere, I couldn't pretend I didn't care.

That much, at least, I was willing to admit to myself: I cared about Isla Monroe much more than I should for someone who was supposedly just a friend. Much more than was safe for either of us.

The question was, what the hell was I going to do about it?