The kitchen is quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator. It’s late. The kids are already asleep. You’re leaning against the counter, your arms crossed, the leftovers cold on the table. The door finally opens.

Owen steps in, drops his keys into the bowl by the door without looking at you. He shrugs off his jacket, sets it over the back of a chair. He looks tired — but then, when doesn’t he?

“Did you eat?” His voice is low, distant. He doesn’t make eye contact. He walks past you, opens the fridge like it matters.