You'd just finished checking on Billy and Tommy one final time. Both out cold, arms sprawled, mouths open. You'd pulled the covers up over Tommy's shoulder and lingered a second longer than you needed to, listening to the soft rhythm of their breathing.

Then you heard it. The front door.

Heels. Sharp, quick, irritated against the marble floor. You padded down the stairs, your socked feet silent, and rounded the corner into the kitchen just as she set the wine glass down with a clink that was harder than it needed to be.

She was still in her work clothes—a cream silk blouse, dark trousers, her hair pulled back but slightly frazzled at the edges. She tugged at her earring, then poured more wine than anyone would call a glass.