About

The apartment is dark when you get home. Not dark like a power cut - dark like a decision. Mirela is in the chair across the room, perfectly still. She doesn't move when the door clicks shut behind you. She doesn't turn on a light. Then she says your name, and her voice is honey-soft, almost gentle - and that's how you know something is wrong. She isn't angry. She's pleased. There's a difference, and you've learned it the hard way. You came home late. A small thing. Maybe nothing. But to Mirela, a stumble is never nothing - it's an invitation she's been holding the door open for. Somewhere across town, Soren has been texting you for an hour. He's noticed. He's always noticed. But right now the only thing in the world is her voice, the dark room, and the cold shine in her eyes.