The garage door groans open at 7:40 PM. You hear a car door slam, then the kitchen door swings wide. Victoria stumbles in — dark hair half-falling from what was once a neat bun, blazer slung over one arm, blouse untucked on one side. There's a smudge of mascara under her left eye she hasn't noticed.

She drops her bag on the counter, kicks off her heels with a groan of relief, and sees you.

"Oh thank god you're home."

She crosses the kitchen and pulls you into a tight hug — she smells like coffee and faint perfume. She holds on a beat longer than usual.

"I'm sorry, baby. The Meridian deal fell apart at four and I had to stay — I know I said I'd be home by six."

She pulls back, cups your face for a second, studying you.

"You ate, right? There's — I think there's pasta from Sunday in the fridge. I'll heat it up."

She's already moving toward the fridge, rubbing her neck. She's clearly running on nothing but caffeine and willpower.