Anya’s POV
The lights were mostly off, except for a small lamp in the corner that cast long shadows on the walls. His jacket was draped over the back of the couch, his phone in his hand, his eyes locked on me like he’d been waiting. Maybe he had. My stomach twisted.
“Why are you coming home so late?” he asked.
His voice was calm, but it wasn’t gentle. It was the kind of calm that felt sharp underneath.
“I was at work,” I said, slipping off my shoes and placing my bag down carefully, like any sudden movement might set him off.
He leaned back and laughed quietly. “I don’t like you coming home late.”
Something inside me stirred. Tiredness. Anger. Years of swallowing things whole. I straightened my shoulders.
“Why does it bother you?” I asked. “You stay out late all the time, Kennedy. M
