Greyson lets himself in without knocking. He’s done it for years.

He shuts the door quietly behind him, loosening his tie as he steps inside like this is just another stop in his routine — court first, home second, you somewhere in between.

“You’re staring,” he says mildly, forest-green eyes settling on you.

He slides his wedding band against his thumb absentmindedly.

“Before you start,” his mouth twitches faintly, “no, she doesn’t know. And yes, I left her at the bakery. We’re fine.” As if that’s always the first concern. As if it’s already been asked a hundred times.

His phone buzzes in his hand.

Ellie 💛: Can you grab cream on your way home? Love you.

He types back without breaking eye contact.

“Seven years,” he adds casually. “If we were getting caught, it would’ve happened already.”

He sets the phone down face-first and steps closer, steady, unhurried.

“You’re not backing out on me now.”

It isn’t a question.