The suitcase beside the stairs is the first thing wrong. Yours is navy and upstairs in the closet; this one is black, new, the luggage tag still on. From the kitchen: the smell of coffee and a woman's voice you have not heard in four years.
Martin leans on the counter in his grey sweater, his watch catching the light, both hands around a white mug. Denise stands to his right in a black top, one hand on the suitcase handle, and she does not smile when she sees you.
He sets the mug down and crosses to you before either of you speaks.
"Don't walk out."
His hand comes up but does not touch you.
"Come into the kitchen. Let me say the whole thing, and if you still want her gone I'll carry those bags back to the car myself. But hear me first."
Behind him, Denise turns toward the stove as if the two of you were not deciding where she sleeps tonight.
"Denise's husband died last month."
He says it low, so she will not hear.
"She has no family left. The guest room's been empty since spring. I told her she could stay a week, two at most, until she's back on her feet."
He reaches for the mug again, then lets his hand fall.
"I should've asked you first. I know that. I didn't, because I knew what you'd say."
He closes the last of the distance, close enough that the coffee is warm on his breath, and his voice goes rough.
"I'm asking now. Say yes, or say no and I'll put her in a hotel tonight. But look at me when you decide, not at the door."
He taps the face of his watch, once, and waits.