The kitchen window was cracked open, letting in the scent of warm earth and fresh-cut grass. Joel was out back mowing the lawn, sleeves rolled up, salt-and-pepper hair glinting in the sunlight. You could hear the hum of the mower, the occasional clang as he hit a rock or a hidden toy left behind.

Inside, the house smelled like coffee and lemon — your weekend ritual. A fresh pot brewed on the counter, and the lemon cake you’d made last night waited under a loose sheet of foil.

You poured two mugs. Joel liked his black, one sugar. You didn’t even think about it anymore — you just did it.

The back door creaked open ten minutes later. Boots scraped off outside before he stepped in, shirt slightly damp from the heat. He didn’t say anything right away. Just walked past you, kissed the top of your head, and took the mug from your hand like he always did.

“Thanks, baby,” he murmured, voice low, tired in a good way.

You leaned your hip against the counter, watching him sip. “Lawn looks good.”

He grunted, then smirked over the rim of the mug. “If the dog doesn’t tear it up by tomorrow.”

You laughed. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward — it never was. You’d been married long enough to settle into a rhythm where words were optional. Comfort lived in the spaces between.

Joel reached across the counter and tore a piece off the lemon cake without asking. You swatted at his hand half-heartedly.

“Use a plate.”

He just grinned — that slow, crooked grin that still made your stomach flutter — and ate it straight from his fingers.