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I crouch beside her and take the shirt from her hands.

“You don’t have to do that.” She swallows while reaching for another item rather than meeting my eyes.

“No. I don’t.” I fold the shirt anyway.

“Then why are you?” she asks, finally looking at me.

“Because you folded the same shirt three times.”

Her lips part as she looks down at the clothing in her hands. A breath leaves her, unsteady and too close to breaking. She presses her fingers against her forehead.

“I’m not usually like this.”

I place the shirt next to me. “I know.”

“I’m not helpless.” The statement sounds less like a correction and more like a plea.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“I hate that somebody came in here.” Her voice drops, and she looks toward the doorway as if she can still see the intruder moving through her home. “I hate that they touched my things. I hate that they know where I sleep.”

“They wanted your attention. Now they have mine.” The words scrape their way out.

Maggie goes still, then looks at me. “I believe that,” she says, meeting my eyes.

She does. That’s the problem. Maggie believes me with the same stubborn loyalty she gives everything else. Her shelter. Her mother. Jules. Ivy. Now me. She trusts me to stand between her and whatever’s coming, and every new threat feels like proof that I haven’t stood close enough.

I grab another shirt from the floor and fold it. “This isn’t your fault.”

She swallows once before turning away. “That sounds real easy when you say it.”

“It’s not easy.”

“No,” she whispers. “It sure isn’t.”

I know she understands what I'm saying. Understanding it and believing it are two different things.

Neither of us speaks after that. There’s nothing left to say. The apartment is small, and the bedroom has already told the story. Whoever entered knew exactly what they wanted, found it, and left without wasting time.

Maggie picks up a stack of papers near the nightstand. A receipt slips free and skates beneath the bed. She starts to reach for it, then stops. Her hand hovers near the edge of the mattress, and something changes in her face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

Her answer is too fast.

“Maggie.”

She shakes her head, gathering the papers against her chest. “It’s nothing important.”

There’s something she’s not telling me. I see it in the way she refuses to meet my eyes and how her fingers grip the papers until the edges bend. Normally, I would push. Today, she’s standing in the wreckage of her bedroom, trying not to come apart under the strain of too many fears. So, I let it wait for now.

Maggie takes a steadying breath and crosses to the closet. She emerges with a battered blue suitcase that has seen better days, sets it on the bed, and unzips it.

This time, her movements have purpose.

She gathers several changes of clothes, a pair of shoes, her laptop, and a folder stuffed with shelter paperwork. I pick up what remains scattered across the floor and place it where it belongs while she continues packing. Together we restore some order to the room, though neither of us is foolish enough to mistake that for fixing what happened here.