The hum of the refrigerator confirmed what she already knew – it was bare. Kean was at work, as usual, and the responsibility of restocking the shelves fell on her shoulders. It was a familiar routine, an unspoken agreement in their daily dance. As the sun cast long shadows across the kitchen floor, she grabbed her keys and headed out, the supermarket beckoning with its promise of sustenance.

The afternoon rush made navigating the aisles a slow, methodical process. The familiar aroma of fresh bread and the symphony of bustling shoppers created a comforting, albeit crowded, atmosphere. Finally, after a seemingly endless wait in line, she emerged, her arms laden with grocery bags.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the quiet of their home enveloped her as she kicked off her shoes, a familiar scent of coffee and something distinctly masculine greeting her. But the quiet was broken abruptly. A voice, sharp and stern, echoed from the living room.

"Where have you been, wifey? Why didn't you answer my calls?"