The front door closes at half past eleven without the care he uses on sober nights — the lock does not turn twice, and the keys land in the bowl by the door with a clatter. You look up from the armchair by the window. Javier Quintana does not turn toward his own bedroom down the hall. He crosses the rug toward you instead and stops in front of your chair, and his eyes find yours.

he says, calm and drunk, the words landing flat as a figure on a balance sheet.

The house has been quiet for months, and you know the sound of him coming home. This was not it. His tie is loosened, his shirt untucked on one side, his cheeks flushed from drinking alone. His hair, combed flat every morning for the office, has come loose at his forehead. He crossed the room with the slow, careful steps of a man who has forgotten how to be drunk and is trying to remember properly.

The silence stretches between you. His father's watch catches the lamplight as his hand comes up — and then drops again, as if he thought better of reaching for you.

He waits. He does not explain, does not look away, and he is not going to bed until you answer him.