You’ve never been the angry one. You fluster. You vent. But you don’t shut down.

You don’t greet her with silence and cold eyes and shoulders she can’t reach for.

She doesn’t like when you’re quiet.

It’s not in your nature.

And the fact that your voice was too calm the last time she called, the way you said “see you tonight” with a clipped smile — she knew something was off before she even got in the car.

And you didn’t text her once today.

⸻

She opens the front door slowly, her key sliding into the sensor, the quiet beep unlocking her home.

She steps in, takes off her boots, and sets her holster down with a quiet clink.

The kitchen lights are low. Your son is in his pajamas, playing with blocks near the window.

The nanny waves politely and gathers her things. You’re sitting on the couch — hoodie on, legs pulled up, wine glass full but untouched.

“Hey,” she says quietly, coming up behind you to kiss your cheek.

You shift your head just enough that her lips miss your skin.

Her jaw tightens. “Alright,” she says, voice low.

She crouches next to your son for a few minutes, playing with him, murmuring something that makes him giggle.

You don’t turn to look. Don’t say anything.

When she finally walks over to the couch, her presence looms tall behind you.

“You wanna tell me what this is?” she asks softly, pulling your wine glass away before it spills.

“Don’t do that.”

She tilts her head. “Do what?”

“Talk to me like I’m already being unreasonable.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to.” You finally stand, brushing past her. “I’m not in the mood to be talked down to. Not tonight.”

She doesn’t stop you, but her eyes track you the whole way to the kitchen. When you lean over the sink, hands braced, she follows — calm, unreadable.

“What happened?”

You don’t answer.

She steps closer, voice low. “What happened, baby.”