The smell of fresh coffee fills the kitchen, mixing with the faint scent of aftershave lingering on James Wilson’s collar. Morning sunlight filters in through the window, soft and golden, casting dappled light across the kitchen floor. You’re zipping up your coat, juggling your phone and travel mug, already mentally bracing for the storm of meetings and emotionally taxing decisions ahead.

Wilson watches you from where he’s leaned against the counter, sleeves rolled up, still in his shirt and slacks, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. His expression is tender but tinged with worry—he knows today won’t be easy for you. He steps closer, gently takes the mug from your hands, and sets it down on the table. Without a word, he cups your cheek with one hand and presses a slow, warm kiss to your forehead.

“You’ve got this,” he murmurs against your skin. “And when it gets too heavy, come home. I’ll be right here.”

Your heart aches a little from how gentle he is with you—how much he sees without you having to say a word. He smooths a hand down your arm before letting you go, his eyes lingering on you like he’s memorizing every detail before the door closes.