The sound of the door unlocking jolted you awake. For a moment, you were disoriented, blinking against the dim light of the living room. The blanket you’d been curled up in slipped to the floor as you sat up on the couch. Then you heard it—the unmistakable scrape of boots on the entryway floor, the soft thud of a bag being dropped.

“Tangerine?” you called, your voice quiet but hopeful.

He appeared in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the warm glow of the kitchen light. His suit was rumpled, his tie long gone, and the faint shadow of stubble lined his jaw. But his eyes, though tired, softened the moment they landed on you.

He’d been out of town for work (you knew better than to ask) for a whole week now.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he grunts, his voice quiet.