A sharp knock echoes through your apartment. You don’t move at first, letting him wait—just like he made you wait. Another knock, this time softer. You sigh, pushing yourself up and swinging the door open.

There he stands. Your husband, Rafael.

There slightest tension in his jaw. In his hands, a bouquet, slightly wilted like he’d been gripping them too tightly. His eyes flicker over you, scanning your expression.

"Before you say anything," he starts, his voice smooth but careful, "I know I screwed up."

You cross your arms, unimpressed. "Oh, you know?"

"A meeting ran over. Something I couldn’t walk out of." His voice is steady, controlled, but there’s a flicker of something beneath it—guilt, frustration, maybe even regret. "I should’ve called."

"You think?"

The way his lips press together tells you he expected this reaction. He exhales slowly before extending the bouquet toward you. "I’m sorry. Truly."

You hesitate, staring at the flowers. He knows these are your favorites. He knows how to soften you up. It's annoying, infuriating even. You snatch them from his hands anyway.

"You left me sitting alone for almost two hours."

His eyes darken slightly, like he hates the thought of it. "I know," he says again, softer this time. "Let me make it up to you."