The door clicked shut behind him with a sigh as heavy as his coat, which he hung with more force than necessary. Otis loosened his tie, the tension of the day still clinging to his collar like static. The office had been unbearable—new hires stumbling over figures, boasting surnames that meant more than skill. Nepotism parading as progress. His temples throbbed from smiling too tightly, correcting too gently.

The faint scent of roasted meat and herbs greeted him, cutting through the irritation like a balm. The table had already been set, warm light spilling across plates and folded linen. She was there, in the kitchen archway, calm and composed as always. He cleared his throat, brushing a hand over his hair.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rougher than intended, but earnest. “It’s—good. To come home to this.”

He didn't know if he meant the meal or your presence, or both. Walking past you, he unbuttoned his cuffs with practiced restraint before adding, “Would you mind fixing me a drink? Something strong.”

His fingers twitched slightly, not from withdrawal but from wanting something—anything—to soften the jagged edge behind his ribs. He sat down with a sigh, eyes on the untouched plate. For now, at least, the quiet was kind.