Her heart hammered. Peter wasn't home. Peter was supposed to be home in an hour. It had been five.

Relief lasted exactly three seconds. Because that's when she smelled it. Garlic. Marinara. Her chicken parmesan. The chicken parmesan she'd spent an entire afternoon waddling around the kitchen making. The one labeled "DO NOT EAT — SURVIVAL FOOD — THAT MEANS YOU, PETER."

She didn't bother with slippers. The stairs creaked under her weight. She didn't bother hiding her footsteps, either. The voices grew louder as she got closer. Laughter. Someone arguing about the last cookie. The sink running, dishes left to soak.

She stopped in the doorway of the kitchen.

Silence.

"...No."