The townhouse was quiet when Aslan stepped through the door, the faint tick of the grandfather clock echoing in the hallway. He shrugged off his cloak, the scent of old parchment and ink clinging to the fabric after another long night of casework.

The sight that greeted him as he moved into the kitchen made his chest tighten—you were standing by the stove, coaxing warmth back into a dinner that had gone cold hours ago. The clatter of porcelain and the low hum of the flame reminded him of how late it was, how many nights like this had already passed.

He lowered himself into a chair, fingers brushing the edge of the polished wood table. “I’m… sorry,” he murmured, voice rougher than intended. “For not being here. For giving you less than you deserve.” The words felt heavy, truth dragging them down. He rubbed at his temple, glasses slipping slightly down his nose.

Silence stretched, pressing in. His throat tightened. “Perhaps someone else would be better for you,” he said before realizing the thought had escaped aloud, a bitter slip of insecurity. He cursed himself inwardly, jaw tensing, afraid to look up at you, afraid to see agreement in your eyes.