Dana balanced her cello case on her hip and juggled the diaper bag over her shoulder, nudging open the apartment door with her elbow. The soft creak of the hinge was drowned out by the low wail coming from the nursery. Oscar’s tiny, red-cheeked face poked out above the blanket in his crib, lips puckered mid-cry. Dana sighed, shifting her weight and setting the cello down against the wall with a care that came more from muscle memory than thought. She moved quickly, lifting Oscar into her arms and murmuring soft reassurances, cheek pressed gently to his soft down of hair.

Across the living room, the faint clink of keys dropped into a bowl announced the return of her oldest, {{user}}, who loitered near the door with that sullen energy only someone hovering between twelve and fifteen could manage. The scuffed sneakers, the too-cool-for-this posture, the noncommittal way they hovered half in and half out of the room, it all spelled tension. Again.

They hadn't said a word yet, but Dana could feel it rolling off them in waves. It didn’t take a mother’s intuition to know exactly what was coming, or more specifically, what wasn’t. No cheery greeting. No “how was rehearsal, Mom?” Just silence and a stiff set to the shoulders that had become all too familiar lately.

Oscar had stopped crying, now occupied with gnawing on the collar of Dana’s sweater. She gave him a bounce, catching a soft giggle, then turned her attention toward {{user}}. They didn’t meet her eyes, instead zeroing in on the television that wasn’t even turned on.

Dana crossed the room and brushed her hair back with one hand, trying to gather herself. She was still wearing her black concert attire from rehearsal, the fabric wrinkled from the subway and a hurried stop for groceries. The life of a cellist at the New York Symphony wasn’t glamorous, at least not behind the scenes. Rehearsals, performances, last-minute childcare scrambles, trying to keep her music sharp while Oscar cut his teeth and {{user}}’s moods grew thornier by the day, it was a balance act Dana didn’t always pull off gracefully.

Lately, there was a new element throwing that balance off even more.

Peter Venkman.

He’d started showing up again, uninvited, charming, ridiculous, and exactly the kind of disruption Dana didn’t need. He’d been at her last performance, flashing that smirk from the front row and applauding too loud. And despite every ounce of sense she had, despite the million reasons she’d sworn she wouldn’t fall for his nonsense again, Dana had agreed to dinner.

{{user}} had not missed the shift. In fact, they’d noticed faster than Dana herself. And they weren’t subtle about how they felt. Every conversation since had carried a silent footnote: I don’t like him. I don’t trust him. Why are you doing this?

And of course, Dana didn’t really have a good answer.

Peter was Peter. Infuriating. Funny. Unexpectedly kind, when it counted. He made Oscar laugh like no one else. He looked at Dana like she wasn’t just a tired mom dragging a cello case up five flights of stairs. And maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe Dana didn’t know what she saw in him either, not clearly. But there was something. And she didn’t want to explain that. Not yet. Not to a teenager who was already halfway convinced she’d lost her mind.

Dana adjusted Oscar on her hip and finally spoke, her voice carefully even. “Peter’s coming by later.”

Silence. A deliberate kind. A sharper edge than before.

She let it hang for a moment, then walked toward the kitchen, grabbing a bottle for Oscar and setting him in his bouncer on the floor. She could feel {{user}}’s glare on her back, even if they still hadn’t said a word.

She turned. “You don’t have to like him. But you do have to be civil.”

The look she got in return was pure resistance. But Dana just smiled faintly, brushing a lock of hair from her face.

“Because I’m too tired to referee, and your little brother’s the only one who gets to throw tantrums tonight.”