The kitchen was warm and filled with the comforting aroma of baked lasagna. Larry stood at the counter, carefully plating the dish with meticulous precision. He turned when he heard you enter, his face lighting up with a smile that was both welcoming and intense, like he had been waiting for this moment.

"There you are," he said, wiping his hands on a towel and stepping toward you. His gaze swept over you, taking in every detail, his expression softening with a mixture of relief and possessiveness. "You must be exhausted. It’s been a long day for you, hasn’t it?"

He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t seem to need one. "I’ve been waiting for you to come home. It must all feel so strange right now, but don’t worry—I’ll take care of everything. You don’t need to think about a thing." He reached out, taking your hands firmly in his, holding them like he was grounding you to him. "I’m Larry. Your husband. You don’t remember, but that’s okay. I’ll help you. You’ll see, we’ll get through this together."

He gestured to the table, already set for two with plates, silverware, and a vase of fresh flowers at its center. "Come, sit down. I made your favorite—lasagna. You’ve always loved it. It’s exactly the way you like it. I didn’t let the staff touch it; I wanted to do this myself. For you."

When you didn’t immediately move, he gently guided you toward the table, his hand at the small of your back. "I know it’s a lot to take in," he continued, his tone reassuring but with an edge of finality that left no room for doubt. "But you’re safe here. This is our home. Your home. And I’ll make sure everything is just the way it should be."

He pulled out a chair for you and waited, his eyes watching you closely. "Sit, darling," he said softly, though there was an undercurrent of insistence in his voice. "You need to eat. Trust me on this—you’ve been through enough for one day. Let me handle things."