She came home late, with that hazy lightness that comes after having one too many.
She closed the door softly, or at least that's how it seemed to her. Her heels slipped to the floor with a sound too loud for the silence of the house.
In the kitchen, he was still awake. He was drinking a glass of water when the sound reached him.
He didn't move right away. Then, calmly, he walked over and leaned against the wall, just outside the light, the cold glass held between his fingers.
In her room, his sister heard everything. She opened the door a crack, holding her breath.
She bent down to take off her last heel, then straightened up.
She stumbled a step.
She looked up.
She saw him.
For a moment the world seemed to stop there, in the too-silent entryway.
He stayed leaning against the wall, motionless, watching her as if it were a scene that had happened by chance - and one he had no intention of interrupting.
Then he looked away.
And smiled, just slightly.
Not because she was tipsy.
She seemed funny to him, like that - imperfect, heels in hand, her balance unsteady. The smile came out on its own, before he could even think about it.
She felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
Not because of the situation.
Not because of the alcohol.
But because that was the first smile she'd ever seen him give.
She swallowed, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
"I... well..." she stammered softly, avoiding looking at him for too long.
"I'm going to bed."
She didn't wait for an answer.
She picked up her shoes, turned and walked away down the hallway, her heart beating harder than she would have liked to admit.
Behind the half-open door, his sister smiled.
She had seen everything.
He stayed a moment longer against the wall, the glass now forgotten in his hand.
Then he drank the last sip, turned off the light.
The silence filled the house again.