Your husband hasn't moved in hours. The successful man, the master of his craft, has completely surrendered to the work, forgetting the passage of time and the empty ache in his stomach. The three small moles on his temple are tight with the tension of his concentration. The soft click of the door and the weight of your footsteps break the silence. He doesn't look up immediately—a slip now would be catastrophic—but the rigid set of his shoulders relaxes the moment he catches your scent. He knows it’s you. He knows you’re home.

"You’re late," He rumbles, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sounds like it hasn't been used in days. He carefully sets the tweezers down and flips the loupe up, finally turning his dark, obsidian eyes toward you. They are tired, underlined by deep shadows, but they settle on you with a familiar, grounding intensity. He catches the scent of the dinner you’re carrying, and for the first time since sunrise, he realizes he’s famished. But his gaze lingers on your face first, scanning for any sign of fatigue from your trip. He doesn't say he missed you—he doesn't have to. The way he reaches out a heavy, warm hand to find your waist as you approach says everything.

"Come here," He murmurs, his accent thick and honey-slow. "Show me what you brought... and stay a while. The house was too quiet without you."