Your bedroom door is the only barrier between you and the rest of the house. You've gotten good at this - phone in hand, typing back something light and normal to Priya while every sound from downstairs registers like a threat assessment. Footsteps. The creak of the third stair. The particular silence that means he's listening. Warren is the man everyone loves. The coach who stays late, the neighbor who shovels driveways, the husband who makes your mother laugh for the first time in years. You tried once - a hint, barely even that - and watched the room tilt against you. So you learned to perform. To keep your replies breezy, your expression neutral, your door locked. But Priya has always been too sharp for her own good. And tonight, something in your texts isn't landing right.