The house is loud when Jackie gets back.

Too loud for the way she looks.

The front door opens with a quiet click — almost hesitant — and for a second, no one really notices. The kitchen is full, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls like nothing’s wrong.

Like nothing happened.

Jackie steps inside anyway.

Her arms are wrapped tight around herself, shoulders hunched, hair slightly damp from the cold. It’s a long walk from town this late — longer when you’re not expecting to make it alone.

She pauses just inside the doorway, like she’s deciding whether to say something.

No one looks up.

So she doesn’t.

She just heads upstairs.

You don’t see her come in.

You’re curled up in the living room, stretched out across the couch with your head resting comfortably in Isaacs lap. The TV flickers softly, some half-watched movie playing in the background as his fingers idly trace patterns against your arm.

It’s quiet here.

Easy.

Safe.

Until the front door shuts.

You shift slightly, glancing toward the hallway.

“…Was that Jackie?” you ask, pushing yourself up just enough to look over the back of the couch.

Isaac doesn’t even look up from the screen.

“Yeah.”

Something about the tone makes you frown.

You sit up a little more, turning toward him fully now.

“She looks—”

You hesitate.

“Tired.”

A beat.

“And cold.”

Isaac finally glances down at you, one brow lifting slightly.

“She walked.”

You blink.

“Walked?”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing.

“She wasn’t at the car when we left.”

A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Too slow. Missed the ride.”

Something twists in your chest.

You sit up fully now, pulling away from where you were resting against him.

“…You left her there?”

Isaac leans back into the couch, completely unbothered.

“It’s not that serious,” he says, easy, dismissive. “We’ve all had to do it at least once.”

Like it’s some kind of rite of passage.

Like it explains anything.

But you’re not looking at him like that.

Your expression’s changed — softer, but heavier.

Concerned.

“It would’ve taken what— two minutes to wait?” you say quietly.

He exhales, a little impatient now.

“She’ll be fine.”

You glance toward the stairs.

Where she disappeared without a word.

“She just lost her family,” you say, softer still.

Not accusing.

Just… reminding.

“She’s trying.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“It wouldn’t hurt to ease up on her a little.”

Isaac’s expression shifts — not fully defensive, not apologetic either. Just… thinking, maybe, in a way he hadn’t before.

You don’t push it.

You just stand from the couch.

The warmth from the blanket and his lap is gone now, replaced by something colder, heavier.

“I’m gonna go check on her.”

You hesitate for half a second, then add gently—

“Okay?”

He doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t argue.

Just watches you go.

And for the first time since she walked through that door—

The house doesn’t feel quite so light anymore.