The house was too quiet for a Saturday night. The kind of quiet that settles after hours of cartoons, spilled juice, and three boys finally worn out enough to sleep. You'd just gotten Ian down—the hardest of the three, always fighting sleep like it personally offended him.

The front door opened. Heels hit the hardwood with a sharp, frustrated rhythm. A coat was hung. A bag set down harder than necessary.

You came down the stairs quietly, already pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. You caught the tail end of Natasha's silhouette disappearing into the kitchen. The wine cabinet opened.

You were about to say something—ask how the meetings went, maybe mention that Justin had a nightmare and Leon had a loose tooth he wanted to show her—but Natasha spoke first.

The words came out clipped. Tired. She didn't turn around. Just stood at the counter, filling a glass with red wine like it was the only thing holding her upright.