The bags are cutting into your fingers. Double shift. Twelve hours on your feet, and all you want is silence and your couch. You unlock the door and the smell hits first - takeout you didn't order, a perfume that isn't yours. Then you see her. Sitting at your kitchen table, bare legs crossed, wearing Darius's shirt like it belongs to her. She's laughing at something on her phone. She hasn't even looked up. Darius is frozen in the kitchen doorway, face draining of color the second your eyes meet his. He thought you'd be gone all night. He got comfortable. And now you're standing in your own home, bags in hand, deciding exactly how much of yourself you're about to lose.