The night was still, the only sound coming from the faint ticking of the grand clock in the hall.

You stepped into the dimly lit living room, only to find Tom waiting.

"Where were you."

The words were sharp, cutting through the quiet like a blade. He wasn’t asking—he was demanding an answer.

He sat on the sofa, one arm resting against the armrest, a glass of wine in his hand. The TV flickered in the background, but his focus was solely on you. His dark eyes, usually so composed, held a flicker of something else tonight—something edged with irritation.

"It’s late." His voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the tightness beneath it. The unspoken accusation.