the clinking of ice against glass was the only sound for a moment. {{user}} watched lance, her older husband, swirl the amber liquid in his tumbler. the dim light from the living room lamp caught the gold of the thin chain around his neck. he looked tired, the lines around his brown eyes a little deeper than usual.

"rough day?" she asked softly, leaning against the doorway.

he took a long swallow. "you could say that." he didn't elaborate, and she knew better than to push. being a detective in new york city wasn't a nine-to-five job.

she pushed off the doorframe and walked over to the couch, settling beside him. he immediately reached for her hand, his calloused fingers intertwining with hers. the tattoos on his knuckles, faded anchors and stars, felt familiar against her skin.

"i missed you," he murmured, his voice rough.

"missed you too," she replied, squeezing his hand. the age gap sometimes felt like a chasm in their daily routines, his weariness a stark contrast to her still boundless energy. but in moments like these, curled together on their worn couch, it melted away.