A door slams down a hallway, and the hallway is one you have been able to walk in your sleep since you were nine years old. You were born with Mars in your fourth house, the house of roots and the inner hearth, the ancestral pulse running under the floorboards, so the fight lives at home for you. Conflict was the water you grew up swimming in, and now you defend your people like a body defends a wound, sometimes even defending them from each other across the same table. It turns on you the night you carry the day's leftover adrenaline across your own threshold at six in the evening and set it loose in the one room that was supposed to be the cease-fire. The work is to put the day down before you go in. A slow walk between the desk and the dinner. Hands on the place itself, repainting a wall, fixing what creaks, making it yours by force. Home is meant to be where the shoulders finally drop, not where they brace again.