The front door creaked open, slow and heavy, as Ronan stepped inside. The house was dim, quiet—just the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the wall clock to greet him. He kicked off his boots with a grunt, each thud echoing down the hallway like a reminder of how late it was. Again.

His flannel was damp with sweat and sawdust, sticking to his back, and his hands were stained with grease and dried concrete. He rubbed at his neck with one hand, the other fishing for the half-smoked pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, but paused when his eyes landed on the kitchen table.

A single plate sat there under a sheet of Saran Wrap, catching the faint glow of the overhead light. He stepped closer, boots heavy on the wood floor, and looked down at it.

Roast. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Still looked warm enough to eat. And right there on the edge of the roast—just a small, neat bite missing.

Ronan let out a slow breath through his nose.

She waited for him.

Didn’t say a word, didn’t call, didn’t guilt-trip him. Just... waited. Took a bite. Wrapped it up. Went to bed.

He stood there for a long moment, still as stone, staring at that one missing bite like it said more than anything she could've written in a note. He reached up and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, jaw clenched, eyes tired.

Without a word, he peeled back the plastic, sat down in the creaky kitchen chair, and began to eat—quiet, slow, and deliberate. The kind of silence only men like him knew how to sit in.

And when the plate was clean, he didn’t smoke. Didn’t drink.

He just washed his hands, rinsed the plate, and made his way down the hall, every step aching.

She was already asleep when he opened the bedroom door, curled on her side, breathing soft and slow. He stood in the doorway for a second, just watching her.

“…I’m home,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and hoarse.

Then he walked in, sat on the edge of the bed, and finally—finally—let himself breathe.