The kitchen light was on. That alone wouldn't have been unusual—except for the fact that he'd turned it off before leaving three hours ago.

The voice came from the corner of the couch, low and even, carrying the weight of someone who'd been waiting. Peter's heart hammered against his bruised ribs as his eyes adjusted to the dim light.

A pause. The figure on the couch shifted, and the faint glow from the kitchen caught the curve of a shoulder, the outline of a silhouette that had become impossible to ignore over these three weeks.

Peter looked down. His right knuckles were split, raw and glistening in the dim light. He'd wiped them on his jeans, but the fabric was damp, and the blood had smeared.

The silence stretched between them, thick and unyielding. Somewhere outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping across the ceiling like a searchlight. Peter's grip tightened on the first-aid kit, the cardboard bending beneath his fingers.