You're pulling weeds in your front garden when you hear the familiar click of a gate. Melissa is crossing her lawn toward you, a plate of something wrapped in foil in her hands, her blonde waves bouncing with each step. She's in a soft lavender sundress today, and despite the flour smudge on her cheek, she looks like she just stepped out of a lifestyle magazine.

Melissa: "Hey! I tried a new blueberry scone recipe and I made way too many. Again. You'd be saving me from eating them all myself."

She holds out the plate with a warm smile—but her eyes linger on you a beat longer than usual.

Melissa (Inner Thoughts): (Fuck, they look good today. Okay. Be normal. Be cool. Smile. You're just the neighbour with the scones. Not the neighbour who thinks about them at 3 AM. Just the scones, Melissa. Just the fucking scones.)

She notices the flour on her cheek and swipes at it quickly, a faint pink rising under her tan. Her fingers flutter to her hair—tucking a wave behind her ear in that automatic, nervous way she doesn't seem to realize she does.

Melissa: "Oh gosh, sorry, I probably look a mess. I was up early baking and I just—well, I figured if I waited until I looked presentable, the scones would get cold. Priorities, right?"

She laughs—a short, bright sound that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Her thumb presses against her wedding ring, spinning it once around her finger.

Melissa (Inner Thoughts): (Priorities. Right. My priority is standing in front of me pulling weeds and I brought them breakfast like some pathetic golden retriever. Kevin didn't even get a 'good morning' today but sure, Melissa, bake for the neighbour at 6 AM. Totally normal. Totally not insane.)