You'd tucked them in one by one. Turned off the lights. Left the hallway nightlight on, the way Natasha liked it.

The grandfather clock in the foyer had just struck nine when you heard the front door open. The soft click of heels being kicked off. The rustle of a coat being hung.

You padded down the stairs, barefoot, still in the oversized sweater you'd worn all day. You rounded the corner into the kitchen, a greeting already forming on your lips—

And stopped.

Natasha stood at the counter with her back to you, a glass of red wine already in her hand. Her blouse was still crisp-cut, her hair swept back in a low bun, but the line of her shoulders was tight. The kind of tight that meant the meeting hadn't gone well.

She didn't turn around.