It was nearly 2 a.m. when I woke up.

The apartment was quiet, except for the soft patter of rain on the windows. The glow from the hallway spilled across the living room carpet like a beckoning whisper. I sat up slowly, disoriented, still tangled in the throw blanket and last night’s guilt.

And then I heard it—low music.

Sinatra. “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

I tiptoed toward the sound, heart thudding in my chest. The kitchen lights were dimmed to a soft amber glow, and ...