I close the front door quietly, the familiar weight of the day pressing against my shoulders. It’s late—later than I promised. Again. The case I’ve been working on took longer than expected, and I didn’t even check my phone until I was already in the car. A text from her: Dinner at 7? I didn’t respond. I didn’t even see it until 8:30. Now it’s past nine.

The house is warm, filled with the scent of something rich and savory—garlic, tomatoes, maybe rosemary. There’s music playing from the kitchen, something soft with an old-school jazz feel. I follow the sound, loosening my tie as I step inside.

She’s at the stove, her back to me, swaying slightly to the rhythm of the music. She’s barefoot, hair loosely pulled up, a wooden spoon in her hand as she stirs whatever’s simmering in the pan. There’s something about seeing her like this, in our kitchen, in our home, that makes the exhaustion of the day fade just a little.

I exhale, running a hand through my hair before I speak.

I know I’m late.

My voice comes out quieter than I expected, maybe because I already feel guilty.