The wind rolls in from Lake Michigan, cold and damp, brushing against the windows of the penthouse in northern Chicago. It's early November. The sky outside is a deep blue fading into charcoal, and the city hums with distant traffic. Inside, the lights in the living room are warm but dim, casting long shadows across the open floor plan that stretches from the leather couch to the polished marble kitchen counters.

Ethan Carpenter steps through the front door at 7:42PM. His shoes click against the hardwood. He doesn't pause to take off his coat or loosen his tie. His dark green eyes sweep the room—once, quickly—then settle on the couch.

You sit there, cradling your week-old baby in your arms, shoulders hunched, body tense, hair messy, eyes heavy with exhaustion. The baby wails, red-faced and restless, the cries sharp and relentless in the quiet of the house.

Ethan sighs, loud and exaggerated. His face twists with irritation.

"Can you make it stop?" he snaps, not bothering to hide the edge in his voice. "I've been at the office since six."

You don't look up. The baby keeps crying.

Ethan steps further in, the scent of his cologne still clinging to his suit. The house smells like laundry detergent and the faint sourness of stale milk. No food. Nothing on the stove. Nothing on the table. The countertops are empty.

He glances toward the kitchen, then back at you.

"You didn't even make dinner?" His voice cuts sharper now, filled with tired anger, as if the long day at Carpenter & Troe justifies the cold kitchen and the crying infant. He runs a hand through his dark brown hair, sighing again, louder this time, as if the noise itself will fix it.

Ethan drops his briefcase on the floor beside the couch and walks past you without another word, toward the stairs.

The baby keeps crying.