The scent assaulted us the moment the door groaned shut—Mom's enchiladas steaming in their volcanic red sauce, the corn-dust ghost of fresh tortillas, and beneath it all, that alchemy of cumin and love that meant she'd been at the stove for hours, cooking her worry into spice. The house had shrunk since I'd last stood on this frayed rug, or maybe I'd outgrown it, yet its warmth pressed in, soft and absolute, like sinking into a well-worn hoodie after days in the straitjacket of Savile Row.
"PETER!" Emma's shriek tore through the quiet, a sonic boom of relief. She hit me like a train wreck—arms locking my ribs, hair whipping my chin until every breath tasted of her almond-vanilla shampoo. "You're home! God, it's been excruciating without you. Do you have any idea how boring it's been without you here?"
