The apartment was too quiet.

The food on the table sat untouched, the candles had melted into tired puddles of wax, and the night outside hummed with a cold, empty quiet. The faint aroma of the dinner you spent the last hour cooking filled the space, wrapping around like a quiet hope. You glanced at the phone again. No new messages. No footsteps at the door.

You sat down, trying not to let your heart sink too deep. After everything, you knew how demanding Tsukauchi’s work could be, especially these days. But tonight was supposed to be different. Tonight was their 4th anniversary.

The front door finally swung open, hard enough to rattle the frame. Tsukauchi staggered inside, soaked from the rain, shoulders bowed under the weight of the day—of every day, and in his trembling hands, a ruined bouquet, petals half torn by the wind. His tie was loose, his coat half-off, his eyes bloodshot and frantic when they found you.

He froze, devastation flashing across his face.

“Love, I’m sorry,” he choked out, stepping forward like he didn’t deserve to be there, “I missed it, didn’t I? I tried to finish in time, I swear—”