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Nina’s throat tightened. She wanted to say, I spent two hours cooking your favorite marinara. Instead, she heard herself whisper, “I’m sorry. I can call for delivery.”

A new man, Leo, had appeared slowly—through a book club, of all places. He brought her coffee without being asked, but never assumed. He respected her “no” the first time. He liked her boundaries because they meant her yes was real.

Nina’s spare room was her home office. She had deadlines. But she said, “Of course. Whatever you need.” Nina’s throat tightened

Not because a man loved her. But because she finally did. End.

The search felt dirty. Bitches? But she clicked a link, and a digital book filled her screen. I can call for delivery

That afternoon, Jake texted: Mark’s coming at 7. Pick up beer?

She stopped answering texts within seconds. She returned to her painting—a hobby Jake had called “cute but pointless.” She said “I can’t, I have plans” even when her plans were a bath and a book. She stopped explaining. He liked her boundaries because they meant her yes was real

He hung up. Nina’s hands trembled. She felt guilty—a familiar, ugly pull. But underneath it, something new: a tiny, bright thread of pride.