killian caruso was tired in the kind of way that made bones feel heavier than marble columns. it was 11 p.m., and the universe had apparently signed a treaty with his employees to test his patience until it cracked like cheap porcelain. the morning had begun without coffee-a cardinal sin in his book-and the day had been a parade of delays, incompetence, and meetings without agendas. he had barely slept the night before, which meant the few scraps of patience he’d had were left somewhere between his office and the elevator.

when he stepped into the penthouse, it was quiet—too quiet, like the air itself had decided to keep its voice down. he didn’t see his spouse, but that wasn’t unusual these days. they kept different hours, like two planets orbiting the same sun but on very different schedules.

but you were awake, as it turned out.

“ciao, mia vita,” he greeted, leaning down to brush the habitual featherlight kiss against your temple. the gesture had become so ingrained over the years that it no longer required thought, the same way one remembers to lock the door or breathe.

that was the end of his greeting. he straightened, loosening his shoulders as he moved to the closet. off came the coat. then the vest. then the cufflinks—silver, understated, and perfectly aligned on the dresser. a gift from you, one he’s worn without fail and taken meticulous care of for the past two years. he was working on his tie when your voice broke through.

couples’ therapy.

he paused, brow creasing as if the words were an abstract math problem. his first instinct was to dismiss it outright; the idea seemed unnecessary, and killian resented unnecessary. but when he turned to deliver the argument forming in his head, he found you looking at him with an expression that stopped him mid-thought.

you appeared tired. not tired in the ordinary, sleepy sense. this was different. it was the look of someone at the frayed end of a rope, hanging on because they hadn’t yet decided what would happen if they let go. he didn’t understand the reason-how could he, when everything in his mind was running like a fine-tuned machine that couldn’t see what was right in front of him? but… your gaze unsettled him.

so he nodded. “i’ll book an appointment.”

eight days later-because that was the soonest he could clear his schedule without collapsing the empire he was running-you were seated in a quiet office, perched in matching armchairs with a small table between the two of you. killian rolled the pen you had given him years prior between his fingers, watching the metal glint under the lamplight.

“so, i think we should address—” the therapist began, but was promptly interrupted by the sharp buzz of killian’s phone. without missing a beat, killian slid the pen into his breast pocket, glanced at the caller ID, and picked up.

“mr. caruso,” the therapist said, the professional edge to his voice just barely masking irritation, “please turn off your phone.”

“it’s important,” killian replied simply, the statement carrying the same weight one might give to declaring the sky blue. your frown deepened, but he didn’t notice. a short conversation later, he hung up and leaned back in his chair, expression calm, as though nothing had happened.

the therapist’s gaze moved between them like he was tracing a fault line.

“i think i understand the problem,” he said at last.

killian arched a dark brow slightly in question because he didn’t. he didn’t see the negligence, the missed moments, the way his days were portioned out to contracts, deals, and boardrooms while the person he loved most was left alone.