The smoke detector in apartment 4B had been chirping for three days.

Ren heard it every time she passed Maya’s door—that insistent, electronic beep that meant the battery was dying. She’d texted twice. Called once. Got back a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else.

That was four days ago.

Now she stood in the hallway at 2 AM with her lockpick set and her heart in her throat, because Maya’s car was in the lot and her lights were off and that goddamn smoke detector was still screaming into the silence.

The lock gave with a soft click.

The apartment was dark. Cold. The kind of cold that came from someone who’d stopped paying attention to the thermostat, to the mail piling up, to the dishes in the sink that had been there so long the water had evaporated.

Maya was on the couch.

Not sleeping. Just… sitting. Staring at the wall where there used to be photos—Ren could see the nail holes, the slight discoloration where frames had hung for years. The photos were face-down on the coffee table now, alongside three empty prescription bottles and a phone with forty-seven missed calls.

“The battery,” Maya said. Her voice was sandpaper. “I know. I should change it.”

Ren’s hands were shaking as she found the step stool, twisted the detector free, silenced that relentless scream. She pocketed the old battery. Put in a new one from the pack she’d bought at the 24-hour CVS, because she’d known—she’d known—what she was walking into.

“You broke into my apartment,” Maya said, still not looking at her.

“Yeah.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Call the cops.” Ren sat down on the coffee table, right on top of the photographs. “Tell them I also stole your trash. And that I’m about to force-feed you the leftover Thai food in your fridge that’s somehow still good.”

For the first time in four days, Maya’s eyes focused. “Ren. You can’t—”

“Watch me.”

“I’m not your responsibility.”

“No,” Ren said. “You’re my best friend. Which means when you’re drowning, I don’t wait for permission to throw you a rope.”

Maya’s face crumpled. “I don’t know how to grab it.”

“Then I’m coming in after you.”

She meant it. Had meant it since college, since Maya had stayed up three nights straight helping her rewrite a thesis she’d lost to a crashed hard drive. Had meant it through Maya’s wedding, her divorce, the miscarriage that had broken something fundamental. Had meant it every time Maya insisted she was fine, she was handling it, she just needed space.

Space was what you gave people when they were healing.

This wasn’t healing. This was drowning in the deep end with weights around your ankles.

“I called in sick,” Ren said. “For the rest of the week. I’m staying.”

“You can’t—your job—”

“Has excellent FMLA policies and a manager who’s not a sociopath.” Ren picked up Maya’s phone, scrolled to the number she’d called six times yesterday. “Now. You’re going to tell me the name of your therapist so I can call and get you an emergency appointment. Or I’m taking you to the ER. Your choice.”

“I’m not suicidal.”

“You’re not living.” Ren’s voice cracked. “And I can’t watch that. I won’t.”

Maya stared at her. At this woman who’d crossed every boundary, broken into her home, stolen her suffering and refused to give it back.

“Dr. Ashford,” she whispered finally. “Her card’s in my wallet.”

Ren found it. Made the call. Left a voicemail that was probably incoherent but got the point across: emergency, need appointment, will pay out of pocket if necessary, please call back.

Then she heated up the Thai food. Threw out the trash. Did the dishes while Maya sat hollow-eyed at the kitchen table.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Maya said.

“You don’t have to know.” Ren set a plate in front of her. “You just have to eat. And tomorrow you have to shower. And the day after that you have to make it to Dr. Ashford’s office. I’ll handle the rest.”

“For how long?”

“However long it takes.” Ren sat down across from her. “Whatever it takes. Until you remember how to breathe without it hurting. Until you can change your own smoke detector battery. Until you’re fighting me to go back to work because you’re so sick of my hovering you could scream.”

“What if that never happens?”

“Then I guess you’re stuck with me.” Ren reached across the table, laced their fingers together. “I’ve fought worse battles for worse reasons. This one’s easy.”

“How is this easy?”

“Because it’s you,” Ren said simply. “And there’s nothing in this world I wouldn’t burn down to keep you safe. Not even you.”

Maya looked at their joined hands. At the food going cold on the plate. At this woman who’d broken every rule because the alternative was unthinkable.

And for the first time in four days, she picked up her fork.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t healing.

But it was a start. And Ren would take it.

She’d take anything, as long as Maya kept breathing.