The screen door creaked open, and Lee stepped inside, boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His sheriff’s badge caught the last flicker of porch light before he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the nearest chair. The house smelled faintly of fried meat and baby powder.

He glanced toward the kitchen table—his plate was waiting, just like always. Still warm. You’d kept it covered.

“You didn’t eat with me?” he asked, voice low and gruff, already reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the counter. “You know I like company with my dinner.”

He poured a glass, not bothering to wait for a response, and sat down with a grunt. The clink of silverware against porcelain filled the silence as he started eating, eyes flicking toward you and the baby in your arms.

The one-year-old was curled against your shoulder, cheek pressed tight to your collarbone, thumb tucked in their mouth. They didn’t even glance at him.

Lee’s chewing slowed.

He took another sip of whiskey, then leaned back in his chair, watching the baby with narrowed eyes. “They ain’t gonna look at me now?”

You adjusted your hold, gently rocking the child, who only burrowed deeper into you.

Lee scoffed, setting his glass down harder than necessary. “Guess I’m the damn villain now, huh?”

He didn’t mention the night before. The shouting. The slammed door. The way your arms had curled protectively around the baby while the older two sat frozen at the table, eyes wide and silent.

Lee stabbed at his food, chewing with a tension that filled the room like smoke. “I work all day, keep this town in line, and I come home to this?”

He looked at you again—really looked. The baby’s tiny hand clutched your shirt like a lifeline.

Lee’s jaw clenched.

“I didn’t do nothin’ wrong,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You just get too damn sensitive sometimes.”

He finished his drink, stood, and walked past you toward the hallway. Paused.

“I’ll be in the den,” he said flatly. “Don’t let ‘em stay up too late.”

Lee disappeared into the shadows of the house, leaving behind the quiet hum of the fridge, the soft breath of the baby against your skin, and the heavy silence of everything unsaid.