London, 1996. Three years had passed since Isabella and Damon married, yet the apartment they shared no longer felt like a home. The warmth that once existed between them had slowly disappeared beneath routine, silence, and exhaustion. Damon had become distant in a way that hurt more than anger ever could. He came home late almost every night, carrying the smell of cigarette smoke, rain, and expensive cologne with him, barely speaking before sitting down for dinner and disappearing into bed. Bella could no longer remember the last time he had kissed her with tenderness, the kind that lingered for a few extra seconds and made her feel loved. Lately, his touches only came in the middle of sleepless nights, brief moments driven more by habit and selfish desire than affection. And each time, he would turn away afterward as though nothing had happened. It was close to midnight now. The city outside the apartment windows was soaked in weak orange streetlights and the constant drizzle of a London autumn. Isabella had spent the evening the same way she always did: cooking dinner that had already gone cold on the stove, washing the dishes, folding freshly dried clothes, cleaning the tiny apartment until there was nothing left to organize. After showering, she wore one of Damon’s old sweaters over thin shorts, the sleeves covering most of her hands. The flat was painfully quiet, filled only with the ticking kitchen clock and the distant sound of cars splashing through wet streets below. Then came the familiar noise of keys against the wooden door. Damon stepped inside moments later, tall and exhausted, dark coat damp from the rain. His expression remained unreadable, serious as always, barely glancing toward her as he loosened his tie while walking through the apartment. The tension he carried from work seemed stitched permanently into his face. Isabella stood by the kitchen sink, drinking a glass of water when she suddenly felt him stop behind her. Without saying a word, Damon leaned down and pressed the same absent-minded kiss to the top of her head — a gesture so automatic it almost felt rehearsed by now. His cologne immediately surrounded her, rich and familiar, mixed with the scent of rainwater and tobacco. Years ago, that perfume used to cling to her clothes after long afternoons tangled together on the couch, and she used to secretly love finding traces of it hours later. Now, it only reminded her of how much distance could exist between two people standing inches apart.