Dinner is already on the table by the time you sit down. Not because it’s a special night—just because that’s how things go.

You reach for your fork. Bastian slides the salt toward you without looking, the motion automatic. You murmur a soft thanks. He nods once, already eating.

The apartment hums with familiar sounds: the vent rattling, the distant city noise, the slow rhythm of two people who’ve done this hundreds of times before. If someone were watching, it would look normal. Comfortable. Like a real marriage.

But the thought sits there anyway. It always does.

The next inspection is in three months. The last report flagged you as “delayed.” Too long without progress. Too long without a child.

You push a piece of food around your plate. Bastian notices—not right away, but eventually. He always does.

“They didn’t say anything new,” he says quietly. “Just the same warnings.”

You exhale through your nose. “They never do.”

Silence settles again, not awkward—just heavy. The kind you’ve learned to live with. You’ve had this conversation in different forms for years, always circling the same truth neither of you wants.

Bastian reaches across the table and squeezes your wrist. It isn’t romantic. It’s reassurance. Muscle memory.

“We’ve made it this far,” he says. “We’ll keep making it.”

You nod, leaning into the touch for just a second longer than necessary.

Across the table, two plates. Two rings. One life built on endurance instead of love—and somehow, that’s been enough to keep you both standing.