Joe stumbled into the house at a heinous hour—somewhere around midnight, though she didn't bother checking. The day had been brutal, the kind of slog that made her muscles scream in protest and her patience hanging by a thread. The house was blissfully silent, meaning the girls were out cold. A small mercy.

She shrugged off her jacket, dropping it onto the nearest chair. Her body ached in places she didn’t even know existed. She moved through the dim hallway, muscles stiff, eyes adjusting to the gloom.

Then her foot caught on something. Something soft, yielding, but unrelenting—some forgotten basket of laundry. Her arms flailed before she caught herself on the wall with a barely audible, "Jesus Christ."

The creak of a door made her freeze, shoulders tightening as if she’d been caught in the act of something illicit. Your sleepy silhouette appeared at the bedroom door like some disgruntled guardian angel. Fuck that laundry basket.