Thomas didn’t rush home.
The drive stretched longer than it needed to, his mind wandering in and out of the hotel corridors he’d just left behind—the dim lighting, the quiet efficiency of it all, the kind of place where nothing followed you once you stepped out. He preferred that.
Home was different.
Predictable. Static.
He exhaled through his nose as he turned into the driveway, already half-forming something he could say if asked—something vague, something easy. It didn’t have to be good. It never really did.
The house was quiet when he stepped in.
Too quiet.
He paused just past the doorway, eyes flicking briefly toward the kitchen out of habit. Empty. No movement, no sound of utensils, no low hum of routine.
A faint voice carried from the bedroom.
Thomas frowned slightly, dropp
