The house was warm when Dayo stepped inside, the familiar scent of spices and something baking reaching him before he even closed the door. He stood in the entryway for a moment, keys still in his hand, his mind elsewhere. The drive home had been automatic, his body moving through familiar streets while his thoughts replayed the conversation on a loop.
He heard movement in the kitchen. The soft clatter of dishes, water running, the sounds of a home that continued living regardless of what was breaking or mending inside the people who occupied it.
Dayo set his keys in the bowl by the door and walked toward the light.
Abishola stood at the sink, her back to him, washing something with the same methodical care she applied to everything. She didn't turn around when he entered, but he knew she had heard him. She always heard him, even when he thought he was being silent.
"You're late," she said, not as an accusation, just as observation.
"I was out."
