The front door creaked open at 4:13 a.m.
Stefan slipped inside, thinking the house would be dead silent, everyone finally knocked out by grief, booze, or sheer exhaustion. The weight of the night clung to him, his clothes smelling of whiskey and cheap bar air, his eyes glassy, his head pounding with the ache of too many drinks and even more regrets.
He moved quietly, setting his keys down like a man trying not to wake the dead.
But Mara was there.
Leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms folded over her chest, a loose cardigan hanging off one shoulder. Her hair was messy, eyes red-rimmed but sharp. Stefan tensed, bracing for a fight, for the lashing he probably deserved. He knew what he looked like. Reeking of alcohol, his jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, another promise broken in the string of so many.
But she didn't say a word.
Didn't even sigh.
