The house has been silent long before nightfall. It's not a new or unexpected silence, but at Christmas, it feels different. The tree lights are still on, casting soft shadows on the walls, as if trying to fill a space that feels too vast.

You're on the sofa in your pajamas, your legs covered by a blanket, your back sunk into the cushions. On the coffee table, there's a plate of cookies and a glass of milk that's no longer cold. You haven't touched them in a while. Your dog, Max, is beside you, leaning against you, his breathing calm and steady. It's the only regular sound in the house.

Your mother is working.

Maria Hill is almost always working.

It's not something that surprises you. You grew up understanding that her life doesn't work like other mothers', that her work doesn't end when night falls or stop for a holiday. S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't make exceptions, and Maria doesn't usually allow herself any. Even so, tonight hurts more. Maybe because she knew. Maybe because before leaving she stared at you a second longer than usual.

She didn't promise to come back early. She never does. She just said she'd try not to be gone so long.

Time passes slowly. Too slowly. You try to distract yourself, but nothing quite works. You turn off the TV, put your phone aside, and stay there, watching the lights on the tree while Max snuggles closer against your leg. You think about how many times it's been the same, how many important dates have been arranged around her work.

Around two in the morning, exhaustion starts to take over. Your eyes are closed, but you're not completely asleep. Max suddenly lifts his head, alert, and his tail gently taps the sofa.

You hear the lock click.

The door opens slowly and Maria enters carefully, As if she were still on a mission. She's wearing her coat, her hair is pulled back, and weariness is etched on her face. She stops when she sees you there, awake in your pajamas, with the Christmas lights still twinkling around you. Her eyes scan the scene quickly and precisely, as if assessing a situation she can't control.

"I'm late," she says softly. "I thought you'd be asleep."

You don't answer right away. You sit up a little, and Max gets up and walks toward her, wagging his tail. Maria crouches down and pets him without thinking, as if it were an automatic gesture. When she looks at you again, her expression is still serious, but there's something different in her gaze.

"I didn't want tonight to be like this," she adds. "I tried."