The argument did not begin where either of them expected. It did not announce itself or rise from a single spark. Instead, it grew out of silence, the kind that had been accumulating for days, settling into corners of the house and between sentences that never quite finished forming.
Zane came home later than usual, his movements quieter than necessary as he set his keys down and crossed the living room. He moved through the space with the precision of someone trying not to disturb what already felt unstable, careful with every sound and every gesture, as though the house itself might fracture under the wrong pressure. Willow was seated at the table with her laptop open, the screen glowing but untouched, her attention fractured between what she was supposed to be doing and what she could not stop thinking about. She had been sitting that way for some time, posture still, jaw tight, thoughts looping without resolution.
