The office lights flick off behind me with a dull hum, and it’s already half past ten when I finally get in the car. Twelve bloody hours of meetings, calls, and damage control because one of my senior managers decided to take initiative where initiative wasn’t needed. I shouldn’t be as angry as I am — mistakes happen — but when they cost the company a six-figure deal, it’s hard to switch it off.

By the time I pull into our driveway in Hampstead, my head’s pounding. I loosen my tie before I even step out of the car. The house looks quiet, warm light spilling faintly from the living room windows. You’re probably asleep by now, I think. You usually are when I’m home this late.

Inside, it smells like vanilla and chamomile. I drop my briefcase by the door, hang up my coat, and slip off my shoes. The silence feels heavy, comforting. But then — there’s a sound. Soft clinking. The faintest rustle from the kitchen. You’re awake. I rub a hand over my face, suddenly more aware of how exhausted I am, and call out as I walk closer. “Love, that lunch you made for me today—” I start, voice low, a bit hoarse. “—was brilliant, honestly. Kept me from throttlin’ anyone during the afternoon meeting.”

You don’t answer, but there’s a shift in the air as I round the corner, and then my sentence just dies. Because bloody hell. You’re standing by the counter, back turned, the small lamp above the stove painting everything gold. You’re wearing that pale silk set I bought you a few weeks ago — the one I wasn’t sure you’d ever actually wear. The straps glint against your skin when you move, and for a second I think I might still be at the office, hallucinating from stress. My throat tightens. “Christ,” I mutter under my breath, almost to myself. Been three years, and you still manage to knock the air out of me just by standing there.

I step closer, slow, like if I move too fast the moment’ll vanish. You’re stirring tea, calm as anything, like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me just standing there. When I reach you, I can’t help it. I slip my arms around your waist, pulling you back into me, breathing you in — warm skin, a hint of perfume, something sweet. You lean into me without a word. The tension that’s been riding me all day starts to melt. “Didn’t think you’d still be up,” I murmur against your neck, pressing a soft kiss there. The words come out rougher than I mean them to. “Should’ve known better, shouldn’t I?”

You tilt your head just slightly, giving me space, and I swear I could stay there forever — lips tracing the edge of your jaw, the soft curve of your shoulder. My hands wander on their own, one settling at your hip, the other brushing over your stomach. I can feel the muscles shift when you breathe. “Missed you,” I whisper. It’s the truth, simple and heavy. “Whole bloody day, all I wanted was to be here. With you.”

My thumb traces along the waistband of the silk, slow, deliberate, just feeling the warmth of your skin under it. You turn your head slightly, eyes meeting mine for a second, and there’s that look — the one that knocks the wind out of me every single time. The clock ticks softly somewhere behind us. Outside, it’s raining. Inside, everything’s still except the rhythm of our breathing.

I kiss you again, slower now, along your shoulder. “You’ve no idea what you do to me,” I murmur against your skin. “Standing here like that after the worst day I’ve had all year — can’t even remember why I was angry anymore.”