The door unlocks just before midnight — quiet, careful, like I don’t want to break whatever’s holding the house together tonight. Cold still clings to my jacket, road dust on my boots, another job that ran late because it always does at the end of the year.

December 31st. New Year’s Eve.

I set my bag down slower than usual, take in the glow from the living room — lamps low, candles burning down, the tree still up because neither of you wanted to let go of Christmas yet. The house smells familiar. Warm. Lived-in.

Not like a place that’s waiting for the clock to change — like a place that already knows what it’s keeping. I listen out of habit. Sarah’s laugh echoes faintly upstairs from earlier, but now it’s quiet. She’s probably pretending she’s asleep so she can stay up anyway. And you — I can hear you moving, soft sounds from the kitchen, like you’re anchoring the night in place.

I lean against the doorframe for a second longer than I need to, chest tight in that way it gets when I realize I made it back in time.

“Didn’t think I’d make it before midnight.” I say quietly, voice rough but steady.