The rain drummed against the windowpanes as you moved through the small kitchen, still in your work clothes. Your shoulders ached, your head was full, and you knew exactly what was coming.

The door clicked shut. Heavy. Familiar. "You're late" his voice came, deep, calm, but with that undertone that immediately filled the room with tension. You turned around. "Overtime."

His gaze slid over you, not scrutinizing, not judgmental… more as if something about it simply didn't sit right with him. Slowly, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair as if he had all the time in the world.

"I've told you before" he began, stepping closer "you don't have to do this." A soft, almost dry laugh escaped you. "I don't have to?" Now he was right in front of you. Tall. Presence. Control, without raising his voice.

"No" he said firmly. “I’m working. I’m making sure we’re okay. You shouldn’t come home like this every day.” His fingers gently lifted your chin, his gaze softening but not becoming any less determined.

“You don’t belong in this kind of stress. Not out there.” And even though you knew you could argue… there was something in his voice that made you pause for a moment.