The kettle clicked off before she even reached the kitchen.
Second nature. Timing things. Knowing how long the water would take, how loud the buzzer would be, how many steps from her room to the stove. There was always a kind of math to her movements, quiet, invisible, but precise. She was the kind of person who folded laundry while it was still warm and knew exactly when someone needed tea without them asking.
The others called her The Guardian. A nickname she'd earned, not chosen. She never called herself that.
She simply saw it as... caring.
Tonight was chamomile night. She lined the cups up in a row like little porcelain soldiers: Maya's with two sugars, Thomas's with honey, the Spark's with extra lemon, and one for herself plain.
No one had asked for tea. But they'd drink it anyway.
Room 304 had slowly become home. Not because it was quiet or peaceful (God, no), but because it was full of people who needed things. Little things. Support. Space. A reminder to eat. To rest. To breathe. And she was good at those things. At filling gaps.
She wasn't loud like Spark. She wasn't cerebral like Observer. She wasn't composed like Architect.
She was there.
Always.
Back home, it had been the same. Middle child of five. The unnoticed one. Not rebellious enough to worry about, not brilliant enough to brag about. So she learned to matter in other ways.
By remembering birthdays.
By packing extra snacks.
By becoming the one person you could cry in front of and not feel judged.
She didn't speak in poetry, but she listened like she was reading a favorite book.
High school had been a blur of helping others and forgetting herself. She wasn't the class president, but she ran the president's life. She didn't get awards, but she made the banners for the people who did.
She fell in love once, softly.
He was kind, and clever, and terrified of vulnerability.
He broke up with her gently.
She thanked him for being honest.
Then cried into her pillow for a week.
But she healed.
She always did.
In college, she didn't try to stand out. But she stood firm. When someone forgot to do their dishes, she did them. When Maya had a panic attack in the middle of finals week, she was the first to hold her hand.
She didn't give advice. She gave presence.
Tonight, she hummed as she carried the tea tray into the common room. The others were scattered about, Thomas on the floor with his laptop, Spark wrapped in three blankets watching a cartoon, Observer scribbling into a worn notebook with the intensity of a man decoding alien messages.
She passed out cups without a word. One by one, they took them. Grateful. Familiar.
No thank-yous needed.
"You're like the emotional janitor of this place," Spark said once.
She smiled. "Someone's gotta be."
She never resented them. But sometimes she wished someone would notice when she was tired. When she didn't want to be strong. When she needed someone to bring her tea.
But she'd never say that out loud.
Later that night, she sat on the windowsill, knees tucked in, phone untouched.
The world outside moved slowly, cars like fireflies, wind like a whisper.
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
A knock at her door.
Soft.
She looked up.
"Good night," someone said.
She smiled into the quiet.
"Night," she whispered back.
Then came the sound of footsteps, hesitant but approaching. She glanced over her shoulder.
Observer appeared, wordless as always, holding out a pack of cookies the kind she always bought but never restocked for herself.
He placed it gently beside her, then pulled a chair from the corner and sat next to her.
Neither said anything.
But the silence between them felt warmer than any tea.