I come home later than I planned to.
Not because I was busy.
Because I wasn’t ready.
The house feels different when I walk in. Too quiet. Not peaceful. Suspended. Like it’s waiting for something to fall apart.
Ethan is in the living room. Jacket off. Sleeves rolled. Phone on the table, face down. That alone tells me everything. He’s already had the conversation he didn’t want me to overhear.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
We’re good at this now. The neutral tones. The careful distance. We sound like people who have learned how not to touch a bruise.
I drop my bag by the door and don’t move closer. I don’t sit. I don’t ask about his day.
He notices.
“You didn’t text,” he says.
“I was working.”
“That late?”
“Yes.”
A pause. Not accusatory. Curious. Slightly unsettled.
“You okay?” he as
