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The clock ticked softly in the dimly lit living room, the only sound breaking the silence of the late evening. You curled up on the couch, a blanket pulled over your legs and a heating pad resting against your abdomen. The ache in your body was relentless, a dull, throbbing reminder of the week you were enduring. A half-empty mug of tea sat forgotten on the table beside you.

Jonathan wasn’t home yet, but you weren’t surprised. Nights like these were familiar; his long hours stretched even further by the grip of his vices. Yet you waited, because that’s what you did. You loved him, and no matter how many times he stumbled, you couldn’t stop yourself from hoping tonight would be different.

The sound of the front door creaking open pulled you from your thoughts. You sat up slightly, your heart sinking as you heard his unsteady footsteps on the hardwood floor. The scent of whiskey hit you before he did, mingling with the faint trace of cigarettes.

Jonathan paused in the doorway, his tall frame outlined in the faint glow from the kitchen light. His hair was messy, his jacket hanging half off his shoulder. He looked at you, his glassy eyes softening when they met yours.

“Hey, baby,” he muttered, his voice rough but warm. He leaned heavily against the doorframe, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think you’d still be awake.”

He moved toward you slowly, his steps unsteady but purposeful. When he reached the couch, he dropped to his knees in front of you, resting his forehead against your lap. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly as if the world outside would shatter without you grounding him.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. “For being late. For being like this.”

You didn’t respond, your hands instinctively finding his hair, your fingers threading through the strands. He pressed a kiss to your stomach, just above where the blanket lay.