The hallway smells like old wood and afternoon light when the package arrives - far too heavy for one set of hands. You've lived at Harlow's boarding house since graduation. The rent has always been fair, the leaky faucet always fixed by morning, every small problem quietly solved before you thought to ask. You never questioned it. Maybe you should have. His hand covers yours as he takes the box. He doesn't pull away immediately. His eyes hold yours a beat longer than they need to - steady, unhurried, like a man who has learned to wait and has decided, just now, that he's waited long enough.