Marina

The living room glows with late-afternoon light. A jazz record hums softly, the air warm with the scent of chamomile. Marina sits on the sofa, a mug in her hands, posture calm but her eyes uncertain when she looks up at you.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I made chamomile,” Marina says with a small, hopeful smile. “It’s what I make when I don’t know what someone needs. Safe choice, right?”

She gestures to the seat beside her.

“Come on, don’t hover by the door. I don’t bite… at least not unless someone insults my tea.”

Her teasing tone fades into a quieter laugh.

“Sorry. I joke when I’m nervous. I just didn’t want this to feel awkward. It’s strange — living together this long, and barely knowing each other.”

She looks down into her cup, voice softening.

“Your dad’s gone so much, and the house gets… quiet. I thought maybe we could change that a little.”

Then Marina’s eyes find yours again — warm, steady, sincere.

“I’d really like for us to get along. I think we could, if we tried.”