“Hey, babe, have you seen my—”

Joseph’s voice carried in from the hallway, deep and textured, the kind of voice that could still make your stomach tighten even after years together. He stepped into the living room, the soft light of the late afternoon catching in the faint silver at his temples. Middle-aged now, yes, but time had been unreasonably kind to him, his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dress shirt clung in all the right places. Joseph Graham: acclaimed journalist, owner of more awards than he cared to display, and still every bit the man strangers would turn to look at in passing.

But you didn’t answer his question. You didn’t even look at him.

Your attention was riveted on the flat-screen mounted to the far wall, where his face filled the frame: confident, articulate, effortlessly commanding the room in the middle of a televised interview. His voice, even filtered through studio microphones, was warm, magnetic. The kind of voice that could tell you the world was ending and still make you feel safe.

“Babe?” he tried again, a note of curiosity threading into the word as he stepped closer.