The elevator sighed open and Mei stepped into the warm hush of their apartment with Jun snuggled against her side. He had been chattering all the way up, small voice full of the evening's discoveries, feet thumping in little shoes that needed tying.
The door swung inward and light spilled across the foyer. For a breathless second the apartment looked the same as always: the framed photograph of the three of them at the lake, the tiny shelf of books with a chipped mug, the kettle on the stove cooling down.
Then Li Hao appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, apron on, hair mussed from cooking. He caught sight of them and grinned in that way that used to make Mei forget everything else. Jun squealed and ran to him, leaving a trail of shoe marks on the tiled floor.
"You're home," Mei said, surprised in a good way. It felt like a gift she had not expected.
"I made dinner," he said, lifting Jun up so the boy could wrap his arms around his neck. "Your favorite. Sit, both of you. Come taste before it gets cold."
Jun clapped, delighted. "Baba made noodles. Baba made noodles."
Li Hao set the boy down at the small table and fussed over him like a proud parent. He ladled sauce into Jun's bowl with exaggerated care, then kissed Jun's hair. Mei watched them; for a moment the sting of doubt that had nested in her chest receded, replaced by a soft, almost dizzy happiness. The apartment smelled like garlic and soy and something that belonged only to this small, safe place.
He came up behind her as she set plates, wrapping his arms around her waist. He murmured something near her ear, flirtatious and warm, the old lightness in his voice that used to make her belly flip.
"What did you do?" Jun asked, staring up at his parents the way a child looks at a small miracle.
Li Hao laughed. "Tried to channel my inner chef. Did I do okay?"
"You did." Mei said it and meant it. The chords of the ordinary evening felt whole.
They ate together, the three of them sharing small talk and laughter. Li Hao made Jun perform a silly trick for dessert, and Mei found herself joining in, clapping louder than the child.
For once she allowed herself to be unguarded. She soaked in the way Jun's fingers reached for the steam rising from his bowl, the way Li Hao's face softened when he talked about the boy's latest drawing. It was easy, this small domestic pleasure, and it healed something inside her even as it left a thin shadow somewhere further down.
After clearing the table, Jun yawned and Li Hao scooped him up to carry him to the bathroom for teeth and pajamas. Mei hung back, watching, then moved toward the sink where he had gone to wash his hands.
He had started brushing his teeth, the brush moving in neat circles, foam at the corner of his mouth. Mei slipped up behind him and hugged him around the waist, resting her cheek against his back. He froze for a beat, toothbrush halted.
"Huh? What's the matter?" he asked, his voice muffled by the toothbrush.
She rested her chin on the curve of his shoulder and breathed him in: the faint citrus of the cologne he favored, the warm smell of his shirt. "I'm sorry," she said.
He stopped brushing and looked down at her with mock concern. "What is it, all of a sudden?"
She kept her eyes closed, letting the moment hang between them. Her voice came out quiet and honest. "Since we are always together, I take the happiness for granted. I stopped noticing some things."
He set the toothbrush in the cup and turned fully, hands warm on her arms. "Mei. Were you troubled by something?"
"No, it's nothing." The words were small and habitual, but the truth behind them shifted. She pulled back slightly and studied his face in the mirror. Under the light, his expression was open, earnest. For a second she saw the boy he had once been and the man he might still be. That sight steadied her.
He smiled and, before she could think too much, he kissed her. It was quick and full of the old intimacy that had kept them tethered through years. She giggled against his mouth, the sound spilling out like a small bell. He tasted of toothpaste and garlic; the memory of supper flavored the kiss and made it tender.
"Hey, rinse your mouth first," Mei teased when he pulled away.
"Does it matter?" he asked with a grin, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
They moved together through the tiny rituals of bedtime. Li Hao carried Jun to the bedroom and tucked him in, the boy drooping almost instantly into sleep, thumb in his mouth, stuffed bear clenched in one hand.
Mei lingered by the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of Jun's small chest. A warmth swelled in her chest, bright and naïve. Somehow watching their son sleep erased the heavier thoughts.
She slipped into bed between them later when Jun was already humming the soft little tune he liked. Li Hao lay on his back, one arm flung over the pillow, the other draped across Mei's waist. Her head rested against his chest and she could feel his heart beat a calm, steady rhythm she had always trusted. For a few electric seconds she let herself float. She was tired, happy and safe in the simplest of ways.
Then a tiny sound split the air. A phone buzzed on the coffee table, a single vibration that seemed too loud in the silence. Mei's eyes opened. The light from the screen danced across the ceiling. Jun murmured in his sleep, oblivious, and Li Hao shifted, half-awake, grunting something into the pillow.
A thin tendril of worry that had been smoldering somewhere inside her curled up again. It was a familiar ache now, her pulse thudding in the same way it had the morning she had seen the other message. She told herself to let it be nothing.
He was at home. He had made dinner. He had tucked their son into bed. Maybe it was a client calling to confirm a meeting, or a delivery, or a school message she could not even imagine.
She reached for the phone on reflex, the small thief of certainty and fear all at once. The screen showed a new message. Her thumb hovered, then tapped to open.
The message read, quote, "See you tomorrow! Good Night". Above it, the contact name glowed: Yuting.
For a few long seconds Mei sat like a statue. The room shrank, all sounds muffled under a pressure she could not name. The words were ordinary, polite, but they sat on the screen like a bright, accusing little light. She felt the old fury rearrange itself in her chest, slow and precise. Every explanation seemed suddenly thin, every excuse a brittle shell.
Li Hao stirred, rolling over to reach for the phone with a practised motion. His fingers brushed hers as he picked it up. He did not notice the tightness in her jaw. He read the message, smiled, and set the screen facing down on the table as if the content was no more than another routine.
Mei's hand tightened at the fabric of the sheet. She could have asked then, gently, accusingly, anything. She could have demanded to know who Yuting was, why a store had been involved, what had happened in the morning she found the previous message.
Instead she pressed her lips together and breathed out, an even, soft sound. She did not want Jun to wake. She did not want the child to see his parents unraveling in the dark. She wanted the small warmth of the room to hold one good night for the boy even if the rest of the house trembled.
Li Hao shifted and closed his eyes. The gentle rise of his chest told her he had not yet fallen into deep sleep.
She just looked at her husband then.