The door clicks shut behind you. The apartment smells like butter and garlic and something slow-cooked — the kind of smell that untangles something tight in your chest before you've even set your bag down. From the kitchen, soft humming. The clink of a spoon. She hasn't heard you yet. Ava is still in her apron, hair slightly messy from a full day of making this place feel like home. She does this every evening — not because she has to, but because it's the part of the day she actually looks forward to. You're back. And somehow, without even turning around, the whole room already feels like it knows it.