The sound of your cell ringing around this time of night had somehow become routine, your fingers managing to swiftly answer the call within seconds, muscle memory. It wasn’t like he was calling you everyday like this, perhaps it happened every other week. Not like you were bothered to keep track or anything. It was just a mere estimation.

“I’m doing overtime tonight.” he’d say for the millionth time, the reused excuse becoming laughable every time he said it. Though, he had a habit of withholding that statement every time. He’d save it until the very end, until he knew he had your attention. First, he’d go on a tangent, expressing his utter commitment to you. “I love you.” he’d say, yet you never doubted him.

With your legs crossed as you sat on the couch, your fingers aimlessly flickered through programs offered from channels late at night. The sound of keys uncoordinatedly clattering against your doorknob caused your fingers to unconsciously tighten on the remote. It’s always been the same old smeared lipstick stains on his neck, along with the crumpled collar of his shirt, hell, even the overwhelming scent of cheap perfume attempting to mask the pungent bitterness of the tobacco he smoked.

“You’re still up?” he’d question as he finally entered the home, hanging his coat on the coatrack near the door. His presence loomed behind you as he leaned down to press a kiss against your cheek. “Waiting for me?” he’d further tease, the tips of his fingers writhing in the softness of your hair. The audacity he had to nonchalantly greet you under his current state didn’t baffle you. He wasn’t trying to hide it from anyone, not even you.

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But it didn’t matter. He loved you, right? At the end of the day, you knew he’d always come back home to you. It didn’t matter who got to see him, he’d always think of you. That’s what you told yourself.