A laugh—deep, unfamiliar, male—echoed from the living room. Then another. The TV blared a sports commentary.

The fridge door opened, stayed open too long, then shut with a hollow thud.

Y/n’s eyes cracked open. The baby shifted, a slow roll against her bladder. She pressed her palm to her stomach, waiting.

More laughter. The clink of glass. A voice she didn’t recognize saying something about pizza.

She was alone in bed. The space beside her was cold.

The baby kicked.