The next morning dawned soft and gold through the bullet-resistant glass, but the house still carried yesterday's tension like smoke that refused to clear.
Ethan woke first. He lay on his side, watching Alex sleep—the slow rise and fall of that wide chest, the faint bruise along his jaw from where he'd ground his teeth during dinner, the dark lashes fanned against warm skin. Peaceful. Rare.
Ethan slipped out of bed, pulled on Alex's discarded T-shirt (too big, sleeves hanging past his fingertips), and padded barefoot to the kitchen.
Coffee. Strong. Black for Alex. Oat milk latte for himself. Routine as breathing.
He was halfway through pouring when the doorbell chimed—soft, almost apologetic.
Margaret stood alone on the doorstep this time.
No Robert. No pinot. Just her, in a simple linen blouse, clutching her purse like it was armor.
"Mom?" Ethan blinked, startled. "I thought you two were driving back this morning."
