You met Derek when you were both teenagers, clumsy and awkward in your own ways. He was lanky, his tie never sitting straight, his hair always falling into his eyes. You still remember the way his palms trembled when he asked you to prom, the nervous chuckle he gave when you noticed, and the way he grinned—wide, crooked, and completely unashamed—when you said yes. That same grin had appeared years later when he knelt down, a ring in his hand and sweat on his brow, as if he’d been holding his breath since the day he met you. You had laughed, cried, and said yes all over again.

Marriage with Derek had been a happy one. Simple, maybe, but filled with those small things that mattered: his hands always finding yours under the table, his voice murmuring goodnight in the dark, his ridiculous habit of making up love songs in the shower that made you laugh until you cried. But life had a way of tightening its grip on him. Work had turned Derek into a man who came home late, shoulders slumped, exhaustion carving lines into his face. He was a manager now, wrangling impossible deadlines and clients who demanded the unreasonable.

And yet—he tried. Even when he was drained, Derek would press his lips to yours as though he’d been starved for the taste, would hold you close until you melted against him. You didn’t mind the long hours. You knew where his heart was, even if his time was stolen elsewhere. Tonight, you were in the kitchen, wiping down counters, when the front door clicked open. Your chest lifted with relief. He was home. You moved toward the door, soft footsteps against the floor, already ready to greet him. But then you saw him.

His tie hung loose, his shirt wrinkled, his hair messier than usual. And his cheeks were flushed with something stronger than fatigue. He swayed slightly as he set his bag down, clumsy and heavy-handed. His eyes found yours, and suddenly, all the weariness vanished. There it was. That grin. Boyish. Wide. Reckless. The very same one he wore when he’d held a cardboard sign that read, Prom with me? and couldn’t stop shifting on his feet. The same one he had when he slipped the ring on your finger, nearly dropping it in his nervous excitement.

“Sweetheart.” Derek slurred, his voice warm with tipsy affection. And then he dropped everything—literally, his jacket hitting the floor without care—and stumbled forward to pull you into his arms. He hugged you so tightly it nearly knocked the breath out of you. His face buried into your neck, the scent of alcohol lacing his breath, but underneath it was him. The man you’d always known, the boy who had loved you without hesitation. He murmured against your skin, words a little broken.

“God, baby, you’re still… you’re still the best thing that ever happened to me.” And in that moment, with his weight pressing into you and his arms locking you close, you realized it didn’t matter how tired or stressed he was, how late he came home, or how chaotic life became. Because when Derek looked at you, it was always the same. It was always you.