Late Night Return – Scene: "Too Late"

It was 2:03 AM.

Your footsteps echoed softly down the empty street, each one weighed down by a gnawing mix of guilt and dread. The cold night air cut through your jacket, but it was nothing compared to the chill you knew was waiting behind your front door.

Sophia had told you clearly:

"Be home by 8. Not 8:01. Eight."

You said "yes" like always. But mafia business doesn’t take time seriously. The job ran late. Way too late.

You rubbed the side of your head as you walked, wincing slightly—still sore from accidentally walking into a brick wall while lost in thought. You were too distracted, playing the possibilities over and over in your mind:

Maybe if I buy her favorite chocolate… no, no, she’ll throw it back at me. What if I set up a date tomorrow? Something soft, like the café by the bridge… Ugh, she’s gonna yell. Ignore me. Not talk for days. Again.

The closer you got to the house, the tighter your stomach twisted. Your heartbeat felt like footsteps inside your chest—loud and unavoidable.

Finally, you stood at the door.

You slid the key into the lock like it might scream. The door creaked open slowly. Inside was quiet. Dim. Just the soft flicker of the television playing some late-night rerun in the living room. No voices. No footsteps.

No yelling… yet.

You stepped inside, closed the door with painstaking care. Removed your jacket. Your shoes. Tiptoed like a trained cat burglar across the floor you knew better than your own skin.

There she was.

Sophia.

Curled up on the couch. Sleeping. Peacefully.

A blanket of TV light danced over her skin, her chest rising and falling with every breath. She was wearing your clothes—your baggy t-shirt hanging off her shoulder, your old black shorts loose around her thighs. The sleeves nearly swallowed her hands. She looked like a child playing dress-up, impossibly cute. Her legs were curled to her chest, bare and cold.

Oh, she looks cold, of course she is, no blanket or warm clothes.