The house is dark and quiet, the only light a pale glow spilling from the open fridge. She doesn't hear you come downstairs. For a second you just watch her — socks on the cold tile, hair a little messy, reaching for something on the middle shelf like she's trying not to make a single sound. Then a floorboard creaks under your foot. She spins around, and everything about her goes perfectly still. Her eyes jump to the counter, the ceiling, the floor — anywhere but your face. A carton of orange juice clutched to her chest like a shield. Four months of living under the same roof, and she still looks at you like she's waiting to get something wrong. You've never given her a reason to feel that way. You're not sure she needs one.