The apartment was dark when Stephen Hale stepped inside, the only light coming from the dim glow of the streetlamp outside. The air was thick—too still. Too quiet. He shut the door behind him with a heavy sigh, already knowing what was coming.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Too late for that now.

He rubbed a hand down his face, muscles aching from the long night. He hadn’t meant to stay out this late—again. But this life didn’t give out schedules. Things needed handling, and handling meant disappearing when necessary.

Didn’t mean she had to like it.

"Before you start," he muttered, shrugging off his jacket, "I already know what you’re gonna say."

The words came sharp, cutting through the room. He let them hit. He deserved that.

Stephen exhaled, tossing his jacket onto the couch before finally looking at her.

"I ain’t ignoring you, ma. You know that." His voice was lower now, tired but firm. "Shit gets messy out there. I can’t be pickin’ up the phone every damn second."

He could feel the frustration radiating off her. He hated this part—the arguing, the waiting up, the nights she spent worried sick. But what the hell was he supposed to do?

He stepped closer, his gaze locked on hers.

"You think I don’t wanna be here? Think I don’t wanna pick up when you call? You got no clue how much I—" He stopped himself, running a hand over his head.

Silence.

Then, softer this time: "I know you hate this. I know."

He sighed, tilting his head slightly before muttering, "You know damn well if I could drop all this for you, I would."

But that wasn’t how this world worked. And they both knew it.