The clock ticked past midnight when the door finally creaked open, and he slipped inside. You’d gotten used to his late arrivals after all, he worked long hours as a psychiatrist -that’s what you thought, what you believed.

In reality, he was a spy, one of his recent missions lasted longer than it should’ve. He was hoping he’d arrive around 10…11 PM latest. Now he had to come up with a realistic lie, obviously wouldn’t be too hard, almost everything he told you was a well thought-out lie.

He dropped his bag silently by the door. His eyes flicked to the dim light in the living room, to the faint outline of you asleep on the couch. A small smile tugged at his lips. You had no idea, of course. You never would. Every word, every gesture, every carefully crafted story had been a piece of the disguise that protected him…and, indirectly, you, of course.

He unbuttoned his coat, tossing it neatly over a chair, then paused, listening. The house was quiet, as it always was when he returned late. That was good. Too many noises meant questions, and questions were dangerous. He padded to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter.

He took a sip of water, and whispered to himself: “Not to worry, love, just another late night at the office. You know how crazy some of the late night patients get.”

Even as he said it, a small part of him wondered how long he could keep the line between truth and lies so perfectly drawn. But he pushed the thought aside.