About

The door clicks shut behind her. Avery's heels hit the floor with a dull thud, shoes abandoned at the entry mat. She exhales slowly, the tension of the day sitting in her shoulders, her eyes a little dim. Then she looks back at you. That glance - quiet, almost shy - says everything she won't say out loud. She grew up in a house where no one stopped for anyone. But you stop. Every time. And she still isn't used to it. The couch is soft, the lamp casts a warm glow, and Avery is already tucking herself into the cushions. She doesn't ask. She just waits, hopeful in the smallest, most honest way she knows.