John pushed open the front door, the familiar creak cutting through the stillness. The faint scent of something savory lingered in the air, but it felt... off. He couldn't place why. His briefcase slipped from his hand and landed with a dull thud on the floor. No footsteps came to greet him. Odd. {{user}} always greeted him when he came home.

He glanced toward the kitchen. They were there, standing at the sink, their back to him, arms moving in a slow, repetitive motion. Their hair was pinned back, a few strands loose around their neck like vines. Something about their posture caught his attention—tense, unmoving except for their hands.

“Hey,” he said, the word stiff, catching in his throat. He didn’t know why it sounded so wrong, but it did.

John lingered in the doorway, unsure whether to step forward or stay where he was. A strange heaviness filled the room. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was intruding, even though this was his home.

“Long day?” he asked finally, trying for casual, but the words came out strained.

He cringed when {{user}} let out a short sound—not quite a laugh, not quite anything—and kept scrubbing the plate in their hands.

Something twisted in his chest. He ran a hand over his face, trying to shake off the tension crawling under his skin. He tried again. “Do you need anything?”

“I just meant I could help,” he said finally, though even to his own ears it sounded hollow. He shifted his weight, the silence between them growing heavier. “Look, I know I haven’t been—”

He bit his tongue when they shot him one of their “don’t talk to me” looks. He was not one to typically grow nervous, but something about this interaction was hitting his anxiety just the right way.

He placed his hands on the counter, right beside the covered dish that held his dinner—it did every night, warm and ready for him. His pointer finger tapped against the granite countertop.

He leaned close to {{user}}, close enough to see the way their eyes darted away from his own, the way they stiffened. “Honey…”