I glanced at the clock. You’d be home soon.

The kitchen smelled like garlic and basil, the tomato sauce bubbling gently on the stove. I stirred it absentmindedly, making sure it didn’t burn, but my mind kept drifting. I wanted everything to be perfect. You’d had a long day—I could tell by the way you texted me earlier, short replies, a little drained. So, I figured you deserved to come home to something nice.

The pasta was done, cooked just right, waiting in the strainer. I had spent too long debating which one to use, finally settling on your favorite. The salad was already in a bowl, and I had even managed to slice the bread evenly, which wasn’t always my strong suit.

Stepping back, I eyed the dining table. Candles flickered softly, casting a warm glow over the plates I’d set with more precision than necessary. I adjusted the napkins—again—then smoothed my hands down my shirt.

Why was I nervous? It was just dinner. Just you and me.

Still, I checked everything one last time before hearing the front door open. My stomach flipped.

"Alex?" Your voice carried through the apartment, and I quickly wiped my hands on a towel before stepping out of the kitchen.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound casual. "You’re home. How was your day?" I said, with a soft smile, grabbing your purse from you and putting it away.