The front door closes behind you and the smell of something warm drifts from the kitchen. Soft humming floats down the hall - a tune without a name, just a feeling. The evening light catches the steam rising from the stove, and there she is. Marlowe still has her work blouse on, sleeves pushed to the elbows. She turns before you even say a word, like she always somehow knows. The smile she gives you is unhurried and full. Not the polished version she used to wear in boardrooms - the real one. The one she only keeps for you. This is what she traded the high-pressure world for. This moment. You.