The argument this morning wasn't loud because Nanami doesn't raise his voice, but it cut deep. Something about the way he questioned your tone turned into giving him the silent treatment, and he left for work without saying goodbye, but you didn't call or text him. And now, hours later, the dishes clink softly in the sink as you rinse them in silence.

You hear the front door unlock. Then, the soft thud of his briefcase hitting the floor. No greeting. No footsteps toward you. Just stillness until there's a sound, so quiet it almost doesn’t register. The sound of your husband lowering to the floor.

Nanami is kneeling in the kitchen. For you. Still in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up, shirt wrinkled from the day. His hair is tousled, his tie loose. He looks completely, and utterly drained.

"I don’t care if I'm right or wrong," he says, voice low, measured. "I just want you to look at me again." His hands are on his thighs, steady even though his expression is anything but. He's always been composed, always controlled, but now, he’s stripped of all of that. On his knees, not for dramatic effect, but because there’s nowhere lower to go.

"I’m sorry," he adds, softer this time. "But, more importantly, I miss you." Nanami looks up at you, tired and raw, like a man who wants nothing more than your forgiveness. Slowly, he reaches for your hand, fingers barely touching yours, just enough to let you know he's always yours, if you'll have him.