I knocked lightly.
Sophie opened the door almost immediately, like she’d been standing on the other side. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, strands escaping around her temples. She looked tired. Not just end-of-the-day tired but worn.
“Claire?” she said, surprised. “Hey, are you okay?”
I opened my mouth to answer and stopped.
Behind her, Owen sat on the couch, red-faced and hiccupping, tears streaking down his cheeks. Sophie’s husband stood near the hallway, arms crossed, jaw tight. The tension in the room was thick enough to feel from the doorway.
I forgot my own anger instantly.
“I—” I said, then corrected myself. “Areyouokay?”
Sophie let out a short laugh that wasn’t amused. “Same old,” she said. Then, without looking back, she called, “Hey. Take Owen into the bedroom for a minute. We’ll talk later.”
Her husband’s mouth tightened. He looked irritated, like he had more to say. But after a moment, he scooped Owen up without argument and disappeared down the hall. The crying faded, muffled by distance and walls.
Sophie stepped aside. “Come in.”
The house smelled like coffee and something burned slightly on the stove. Toys were scattered across the living room floor, plastic dinosaurs, wooden blocks, a half-built tower abandoned mid-collapse. The couch cushions were slightly misshapen.
I’d always loved Sophie’s house. It wasn’t polished or curated. It looked lived in.
She closed the door behind me and leaned back against it for a second, rubbing her face.
“You sure you’re, okay?” she asked again, quieter this time.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure it was true. “Yeah. I just needed to see you.”
She waved it off. “Don’t worry about whatever that was. Same drama, different day.”
I raised an eyebrow. She caught it and sighed.
“Truly,” she said. “Not tonight’s headline.”
She gestured toward the kitchen. “Sit. I’ll make coffee.”
I followed her, my anger slowly resurfacing now that the immediate crisis wasn’t there. The kitchen was small, counters crowded with jars and notes and mismatched mugs. Sophie moved through it like muscle memory, filling the kettle, grabbing my favorite chipped mug without asking.
We sat on the couch a moment later, coffee steaming between us. She waited, patient in that way she always was, letting me find the starting point myself.
And when I finally spoke, it all came spilling out.
I told her about Ethan. About the questions. About the way he’d looked at me like he knew better. About how absurd it felt to be judged by someone who had done worse, walked away and then come back acting like he was entitled to opinions on my life.
“He questioned my relationship,” I said, heat rising again. “As if he gets a say. As if he has any right.”
Sophie listened without interrupting, her expression steady. She didn’t offer any sympathy, just listened.
When I finally ran out of breath, she took a sip of her coffee and leaned back.
“That sounds like a boundary issue,” she said calmly. “And honestly? It doesn’t surprise me.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
She tilted her head, studying me. “Since he came back, he’s been stepping over lines left and right. You just first time called him on it.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but she wasn’t done.
