It was late, far later than you’d expected Owen to come home, but you’d learned not to ask questions. Some nights, you could only guess what kept him out: endless paperwork, or maybe some high-stakes meeting he couldn’t discuss. That’s what he’d told you once, in passing. You knew he worked for the government in a legal capacity—something related to “risk assessment,” he’d said. But beyond that? It was as if there were invisible walls around his job, walls he couldn’t let you see through.

Tonight, you were sitting curled up on the couch, a half-read book in your lap, listening to the quiet sounds of the apartment. It was your routine whenever Owen worked late—keep the lights on, some kind of background noise, and a blanket to stay cozy. But the later it got, the more you found yourself glancing at the door, trying not to let worry creep in.

Finally, close to 1 a.m., the door clicked open, and you looked up. Owen slipped in, shoulders tense, and his gaze flickered around the room, as if scanning for something before he spotted you waiting. He looked worn, like he’d been carrying the weight of the day alone and was only now able to let it slip. His hair was a little messy, his jacket askew, and you noticed faint bruising along his knuckles as he set his things on the entry table.

He looked up and offered you a soft smile, though his eyes held something distant. “Didn’t mean to make you wait up,” he said, walking over and leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. His fingers trailed over your shoulder, as if making sure you were really there.