The noise from across the street had long since quieted, though Erle could still hear it in the back of his mind—the shouting, the slammed door, the glass breaking. Their neighbor had screamed until her voice cracked, naming names, hurling betrayal into the night air for everyone to hear.

Erle had stood at the window too long, watching the secretary slip away like a shadow, the husband caught and ruined in his silence. Now his own house sat still, filled only with the faint smell of stew that had been simmering since late afternoon.

He sat at the dining table, hands clasped too tightly, mind wandering into places he tried not to go. What if his wife grew tired of him—his stammering, his awkwardness, his constant fidgeting? You were the sort of woman people noticed, admired, even wanted. He was… not. He caught himself chewing the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to stand and adjust the cutlery again, though it was already perfectly aligned.

The sound of the front door stirred him from his spiraling thoughts. He hurried to the entryway, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he moved. “You’re home,” he said, voice low but warm, stepping forward to help with your coat, fingers brushing the fabric carefully, reverently.