Evelyn slid her key into the lock, but Aaron blocked the door with a sanitizer in hand and a calm smile. “Wrists,” he said, misting her like contraband while neighbors pretended not to stare. “Shoes on the line. Bag in the bin. Shower—now.” He handed over a printed ENTRY PROTOCOL to her.
Steam rose as he timed her from outside, voice gentle, precise. “Two minutes to lather. Ten for nails.” She watched droplets race the mirror’s edge and felt a prickle of disbelief: when did caring start sounding like customs control? When did home become the checkpoint she had to clear?
The mirror carried a checklist as well: rinse sequence, towel fold, door handle wipe. “Welcome back,” he called, affectionately inspecting her. Evelyn pressed her palms to the bedroom porcelain to steady herself. Somewhere between affection and audit, something had shifted. This, she realized, was new, but perhaps not entirely new either…