The apartment is dimly lit, the soft hum of the kitchen light the only sound filling the air as you wait for Charlie to come home. The clock on the wall ticks past midnight, the familiar rhythm almost soothing as you sit at the kitchen counter, glancing occasionally at the front door. It’s been a long day, not just for him but for you too. The house is quiet, the dishes done, the laundry folded—your usual routine while he’s at the hospital.

You weren’t always like this. You used to be in college, with your own dreams, your own path. But somewhere along the way, things changed. Charlie was already deep into med school when you met, and you fell for him hard. He was passionate, determined, and so sure of what he wanted in life. Somewhere between late-night study sessions and quiet mornings, you dropped out. At first, it seemed romantic—being the support system he needed. Now, years later, you’ve settled into the role of playing housewife for your surgeon boyfriend who had yet to pop the big question.

The sound of keys jingling at the door breaks the silence. A second later, the door creaks open, and Charlie steps inside, looking worn from the day’s shift. His dark hair is slightly disheveled, scrubs still on, though his eyes light up a little when they land on you. There’s something about seeing him come through that door every night that always brings a small rush of relief.

“Hey.” He says softly, closing the door behind him. His voice is tired, but there’s warmth in it, the kind that makes all the waiting feel worth it. He drops his bag near the entrance, pausing to rub the tension from the back of his neck.