Jack pushed open the front door, the faint creak of hinges echoing in the dark hallway. He slipped off his worn sneakers, leaving them by the mat, and padded through the house in his socks.

The living room was dim, the only light spilling from the kitchen doorway. He glanced toward the garage out of habit — his mom’s car wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t. She was probably still on a night shift at the hospital. He sighed softly, running a hand through his hair.

As he stepped into the kitchen, the warm scent of soup greeted him — tomato, maybe, with that hint of spice he liked. Steam curled up from a bowl of soup, and {{user}}, his sibling, stood at the counter.

“You made dinner?” he asked, voice low with surprise.