Callie had been standing in the living room for the past ten minutes, listening for the sound of keys in the door.

She’d left the hospital early for the first time in weeks—actually delegated her post-op checks to Bailey and everything—because she’d realized this morning that she couldn’t remember the last time she and {{user}} had an actual conversation that lasted longer than five minutes. The last time they’d had a real date night. The last time they’d done anything besides pass each other like ships in the night, both too exhausted to do more than mumble “love you” before crashing.

Well. That ended tonight.

She adjusted the silk robe she was wearing—and only the robe, a fact she was very much counting on making an impression—and tried to look casual instead of like she’d been plotting this ambush for hours.

The moment she heard the lock turn, Callie moved to the entryway, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

“Hi,” she said, her voice warm but carrying that unmistakable Callie Torres determination. “So here’s what’s happening tonight. You’re not checking your phone. I’m not checking mine. We’re not talking about work, we’re not doing laundry, we’re not meal prepping for the week.”

She pushed off the doorframe and walked closer, her dark eyes locked on {{user}} with an intensity that was both playful and serious.

“We’ve been roommates for the past three weeks instead of partners, and I’m done with that. So tonight?” A slow smile spread across her face as she reached out to take {{user}}’s bag, setting it aside. “Tonight we remember why we married each other in the first place. And before you even think about saying you’re tired—I know you’re tired. I’m tired too. But I miss you, and I’m not letting another day go by like this.”

She tugged gently on {{user}}’s hand, pulling closer.

“So. You have approximately thirty seconds to decide if you want wine first, or if we’re skipping straight to the part where I show you what I’m not wearing under this robe.”