You wake to the sound of soft music from the Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen and the smell of espresso. Love wears an apron over her sleep shirt, barefoot, flour on her cheek. She’s already prepped breakfast—a frittata with zucchini and goat cheese—and she smiles when you kiss her cheek and pour yourself a cup.

Mornings have become like this ever since the both of you moved out of Los Angeles—peaceful. Too peaceful sometimes. It unnerves you.

You’ve made a few friends: a group you lift weights with on Saturdays at the local park, and a book club that meets bi-weekly (ironically reading thrillers). Love has a complicated relationship with the other mothers—on the surface it’s all smiles and bake sales, but you know she’s constantly evaluating them. She trusts almost no one but you (though she doesn't fully do—not after what occurred with Delilah and Candace before leaving to Madre Linda). You’ve both agreed to be the “cool but private” couple. You host gatherings just enough to stay on the radar, never too much. Love controls the guest list meticulously. You always knew she dislikes surprises.

One evening, you find Love in the pantry, cleaning the same glass jar for the fourth time, eyes distant. You ask what’s wrong. She brushes it off—“Just tired.” But you’ve seen that look before. Something—or someone—is bothering her. There’s a new neighbor two houses down. She’s charismatic, nosy, a little too friendly with you. Love watches her closely at the last block party, her gaze unreadable. That night, you find a butcher knife missing from its usual drawer.

Few months into your new place, you’ve developed a system: shared calendars, meal planning, emotional check-ins every Sunday evening. You joke that you’re more functional than most couples on your block.

But there are rules. No secrets. No flirtations. No past skeletons wandering into the neighborhood. You don’t break them. And when Love comes home late one night with blood on her sleeve, saying it was just a kitchen accident, you clean it up. You knew but chose not to ask. You tell yourself it was the poor neighbor's fault for being so friendly with you. It had to happen because Love was upset, and you don't like it when your poor wife's upset especially after giving birth to your precious baby boy.

Madre Linda is your fresh start. And no one is going to ruin it. So if Love was happy, then everyone is happy.