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nurse, but I have enough common sense to know you’ve hurt yourself." He moved with surprising grace for a man of his size, gently taking her arm and guiding her to the kitchen table. He pushed a chair out with his foot. "Sit. Now." Helen sat, feeling a strange mixture of humiliation and relief. "I was only trying to reach the mixing bowl." "I can see that," he said, crouching down to begin picking up the larger pieces of the bowl. He was careful, his movements methodical. "You should have asked for help. I know you’re the Queen of Independence, but even queens need a stool that isn't slippery." "It wasn't slippery. My back decided to betray me." Robert finished clearing the floor, then wiped his hands on his trousers. He didn't return to his own house. Instead, he pulled a chair out opposite her. "Is it your ribs? You took quite a knock against the counter." "I’ll survive. It’s just a bruise." "Maybe. But it looks like you’re having trouble catching your breath." He stood up again and walked over to her kettle, filling it with water. "Tea. You need tea. And then, if you’re still in this much pain, we are going to drive you to the clinic to make sure nothing is cracked." "I am not going to the clinic for a bruised rib, Robert. I have ice packs and ibuprofen." He turned, the kettle in his hand, and gave her a look that was both exasperated and kind. It was the look of a man who had spent years caring for someone else, a look that carried a weight of experience she hadn't expected to see. "I’m not trying to be difficult, Helen. I’m just trying to be a neighbour. Is that so terrible?" Helen looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the exhaustion etched into the corners of his eyes. He wasn't the intrusive, loud newcomer who had arrived in a flurry of moving boxes anymore. He was just a man, like her, navigating a life that had become smaller and lonelier than he had planned. "No," she said softly. "It’s not terrible." He nodded and turned back to the stove. The kitchen, which had felt so stark and empty only moments ago, suddenly felt warmer. The rhythmic sound of the water heating and the low hum of the refrigerator filled the space, replacing the sharp silence she usually guarded so fiercely. "I have some ginger tea," Helen offered, gesturing toward the cupboard. "It’s supposed to be good for inflammation." "Ginger tea sounds perfect." He found the tin and set it on the counter, then turned back to face her. "You know, I haven't really had a proper cup of tea since I moved in. I’ve been living on coffee and frustration." Helen let out a short, surprised laugh. "I noticed. The coffee pot was the first thing I saw when you were unloading the truck." Robert chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate in the room. "I’m a man of simple, often flawed, habits." He moved around her kitchen with a quiet competence that surprised her. He knew exactly where the mugs were, which made sense, as she kept them in the same place for years, and he moved her dishtowels with a gentle touch. Watching him, Helen felt the hard edges of her resentment beginning to fray. She had spent so much energy keeping him at arm’s length, building a fortress of solitude out of habit and fear. But here he was, making her tea because she had tripped