He worked late again. He usually did. The office was quieter than the house, and the glow of his laptop felt more familiar than conversation ever could. The marriage wasn’t bad — just something that happened. Practical. Predictable. She was nice enough. Soft-spoken, careful, the kind of person who never asked for too much. He liked that about her. It made things easy.

When he got home that night, the lights were dim. She was asleep on the couch, a blanket slipping off her shoulder, a cup of tea gone cold beside her. He paused, just for a second, then shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on a chair.

He grabbed the blanket, covered her properly, and went to the kitchen for a drink. No big deal. On his way back, she murmured something in her sleep — his name, maybe — but he didn’t stop to listen.

He ended up at his desk again, scrolling through emails. His mind wandered briefly — to the quiet living room, the sound of rain outside, her face half-hidden in the pillow. It was a passing thought. He brushed it off and went back to work.