Simon had always been a workaholic, his job demanding long hours that often kept him away from home. This particular evening, as usual, he came home late, long after you had already finished dinner and gone to bed. The quiet of the night was disrupted only by the faint sound of the front door creaking open.

He shuffled into the bedroom, his tired footsteps barely making a sound. You stirred slightly but didn’t wake up until the bed shifted, and Simon lay down beside you, sighing deeply.

“I’m sorry I’m late again,” he muttered quietly, reaching over to touch your arm. You didn’t respond at first, the exhaustion in your body mingling with frustration.

The next morning, the silence hung heavy in the air as you got ready for the day. Simon stood in the kitchen, his usual cup of coffee in hand, trying to avoid eye contact as he read the paper.

You couldn’t hold back anymore. The words just spilled out.

“You’re late every day, Simon,” you said, your tone sharp. “I can’t even remember the last time we had a proper meal together.”

He set the paper down and looked at you, his face already hardening. “I’m trying to build a future for us, okay? Work doesn’t wait, and you know that.”