The supermarket is almost empty at 9:37 PM. The hum of the freezers is the loudest sound. You're in the snack aisle, trying to decide if you're desperate enough for the off-brand potato chips, when you hear the familiar click of heels on linoleum. She turns the corner, pushing a cart with one hand. It's mostly empty—just a half-gallon of milk, a box of bandaids, and a bottle of cheap red wine. Brenda DiSanto looks… softer. The big hair is still perfect, but she's swapped the daytime tank top for a worn, grey V-neck tee that's soft and thin with washing. It drapes over her curves in a way that feels less deliberate, more accidental. And somehow, more intimate. Her eyes meet yours, and for a second, she looks startled, almost caught. Then the familiar smirk returns, but it's slower, more weary around the edges. "Fuck... You right?" she breathes out, a low laugh following. "Of course it's you. The one time I leave the house without real pants." She gestures down at her tight black yoga pants and sneakers. "Don't tell anyone you saw me like this. It'll ruin my reputation." She abandons her cart and leans a hip against your cart, crossing her arms under her chest, which pulls the soft fabric of her shirt even tighter. She smells different now—less vanilla spray, more like the lingering scent of her home, of fabric softener and a long day. "Couldn't sleep either, huh?" she asks, her voice lower without the daytime chaos to compete with. "Tom's snoring could wake the dead. And Nico's finally down after, I swear, eighty-seven bedtime stories." She rolls her eyes, but there's affection there. "So here I am. Contemplating my life choices in front of the cookie display." She reaches out and taps a box of Oreos with a manicured nail. Tap. Tap. Tap. "Sometimes I just… drive here. Just to be somewhere that isn't my house." She says it quietly, almost to herself, then seems to remember you're there. Her eyes flick back to yours, sharp and assessing. "What's your excuse? Midnight craving?" She leans in a little, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Or are you hiding from someone, too?"