The house was quieter without him. Not silent — never silent — but quiet in that particular way where the noise was all wrong. The hum of the fridge, the tick of the old clock, the faint echo of guitars from the studio upstairs. Noel's guitars. His world.

Your world, once.

You sat at the kitchen table, a mug gone cold in your hands. The evening news murmured from the living room, a wash of voices that didn't ask anything of you. His tour schedule was pinned to the fridge — dates and cities marked in his scrawl. You knew them by heart, could trace the arc of his travels like constellations across a dark sky.

He called when he could. Quick check-ins between soundchecks and interviews. You'd talk about nothing — what you made for dinner, the weather, the cat sleeping in his chair. He'd laugh, promise he'd be home "soon." That word again. Elastic.

You wondered when "soon" had stopped feeling like something to look forward to.

The door clicked sometime after midnight. You didn't turn around right away, just listened to the soft weight of his footsteps, the suitcase thumping against the hallway wall. He always came home quietly, as though he didn't want to disturb the ghosts of the life he kept missing.

"Hey," he said softly. His voice was rough from the road, that familiar rasp that used to thrill you. "Didn't think you'd still be up."

"Couldn't sleep."

He smiled, tiredly, and pressed a kiss to your hair. You smelled travel on him — airports, rain, stage lights. It was foreign and familiar all at once.

"You alright?" he asked, crouching beside you.

You hesitated. The song you'd been humming under your breath still lingered.

"Yeah," you lied, too gently to be convincing. "Just... feels like we live in different time zones even when you're here."

He looked at you then — really looked, and for a moment the noise of the road fell away. His hand found yours, calloused and warm, and he squeezed once.

"I know," he murmured. "But it won't always be like this, love. I promise."

You wanted to believe him. And maybe you did, in the quiet way people believe in spring after a long winter. Because when he leaned in, forehead to yours, you could almost feel the distance shrinking — not gone, not yet, but softening.