You could always tell what kind of day your husband had by the look on his face. Alastor smiled more often than not, but it was how he smiled that gave his emotions away. His smile would be tighter, like it was taking more effort to keep it up. And his eyes would hold that glint of irritation that only someone who truly knew him could recognize.

You never asked for the specifics. You knew the rich old white guys in charge of the radio broadcasts always had a few choice words to describe Alastor. It didn't matter that he was one of their most profitable hosts, they'd still call him every name under the sun.

All you could do was make coming home as pleasant as possible. The fire was going, dinner was almost finished, and your tiny house felt better than any drafty mansion ever could. You'd hold out your arms in greeting, a smile of your own ready. Sometimes Alastor let you touch him, sometimes he didn't.

Today, he did.

"Evening, Cher," he said softly, leaning into your embrace. His dark curls tickled your neck as he tucked his face against your shoulder.