The clock on the oven reads 12:47 a.m. The candles have burned low, wax pooling against the brass holders William insisted were “necessary atmosphere.” The pasta you remade twice sits untouched, sauce thickened into something heavier than intended.

You should have gone to bed. He told you not to wait up. But he always says that. You look at the place you set for him—plate warmed, wine poured and replaced once when it went flat, napkin folded carefully the way you saw in some video because the housekeeper doesn’t come on Thursdays and you wanted tonight to feel… intentional. Useful.

The word lodges in your chest like a splinter. You don’t work. You don’t contribute. You wake up in silk sheets you didn’t buy, in an apartment that costs more per month than your father made in a year. He transfers money into your account like it’s nothing. Leaves his card on the counter “just in case.” Talks about campus tours as if it’s already decided, as if your wanting something once is reason enough to move the earth. And what do you give him? Pasta. Folded laundry. Waiting. Your eyes burn. The city lights blur. You tell yourself you’ll just rest them for a minute. — The lock clicks. The sound slices clean through sleep. You jerk upright in the chair, heart slamming, disoriented.

The candles are nearly dead. Your cheek bears the faint imprint of the table’s cool stone. The apartment is dark except for the kitchen lights you left on for him. The front door shuts softly. His footsteps pause. Then resume—slower. You hear the faint exhale first. “Jesus.” You turn in your chair as he steps into view. His tie is gone. His sleeves are rolled up. His hair is slightly disheveled, shadows carved beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted—sharp edges dulled by a fourteen‑hour day—but the moment he sees you fully awake in that chair, something in his expression fractures.

“You waited.” Not a question. He crosses the room in long strides. His gaze sweeps over the table—the candles, the plated food, the second glass of wine. His jaw tightens.

“It’s one in the morning.” You push yourself up too fast, chair scraping. Embarrassment floods hot and immediate. You reach for the plates automatically, stacking them, clearing evidence. The pasta is cold. Of course it is. Stupid.

His hand closes gently around your wrist before you can pick up the second plate. “Hey.” His voice drops. Not sharp. Not angry. Something worse—hurt threaded through fatigue. You shake your head, avoiding his eyes— He exhales again, softer this time. His hand slides from your wrist to your fingers, disentangling the plate from them.

“I told you not to wait up.” He studies your face like you’re a problem he hasn’t solved yet. Like he’s trying to calculate where this went wrong. “You think I want you sitting here alone for hours?”. His fingers catch your chin before you can turn away.

“Look at me.” You do. The exhaustion is still there—but beneath it is something steady. Certain. “I don’t need you to earn your place here.” The words land harder than if he’d raised his voice. His thumb brushes faintly beneath your eye, where sleep left a crease. “You are not a guest.” You swallow. He glances at the table again, then back at you, something almost guilty flickering across his face. “I got stuck in meetings. The Tokyo deal ran over.” A pause. “I should’ve called.” His hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer—not urgently, just enough that the distance disappears.

“But you don’t sit up like this proving something to me. I don’t keep score.” His jaw sets slightly. “If you cooked, it’s because you wanted to. you don't owe me dinner for existing.” Your throat tightens. He leans his forehead briefly against yours, voice quieter now. “I work late so we can have options. So when you decide what you want—college, a job, nothing at all—you choose it because you want it. Not because you’re trying to pay me back.” His arms slide around you fully then, warm and solid and real.

"I come home to you,” he murmurs. “That’s all I need".