Esme has half a degree, a roommate, and a boss who clicks his pen too loud and won't eat unless she tells him to. Then her roommate gets pregnant, and Esme needs somewhere to live. Her boss has a basement. It's temporary. A month, tops.
It is not a month, tops.
It's long enough to fight about the thermostat, how she drives, and whether she's wasting her potential. Long enough for him to eat whatever she puts in front of him, build her furniture at midnight because he just got home, and sit through her trashy TV without complaining. Long enough for his hours to get longer and his texts to get shorter — and for her to learn that the man who checks other people's blood pressure won't check his own.
She can't love him into saving himself. She's not sure she can stop.
Closed-door. Workplace. Slow burn. Forced proximity. He falls first.