The key barely turns before the smell reaches you - something slow-cooked and soft, filling every corner of the apartment. The couch lamp is on. The TV murmurs low. And then she looks up. Ivy's face does that thing it always does - like the whole room settles the moment you walk in. She doesn't rush. She doesn't have to. She already knows you're tired. She always knows. This apartment wasn't much when you first moved in. Two people with not enough history of being loved, trying to build something that felt safe. You've been building it ever since - one quiet evening at a time. Set your bag down. She's waiting.