The house is dark when the door finally opens, the quiet kind that feels heavier than usual. A single light hums softly in the kitchen.

Jack stands at the sink, back turned, hands resting on the counter like he’s been there a while. He doesn’t move when he hears you come in—just shifts slightly, like he expected it.

“…Hey,” he says after a second, voice low, almost careful. “Kids went down a couple hours ago. They kept asking when you’d be home.”

He reaches for a mug, takes a small sip, then sets it back down a little too gently.

A pause.

“You eat yet?”