Being with Claire had never been about grand gestures—it was the small things, the little ways she showed she loved you, even when her life was a blur of movement. She was always somewhere—on stage, on a plane, in front of a camera—and yet, somehow, she was always yours. You never doubted it. She’d text you between rehearsals, FaceTime you from hotel beds, slip little notes into your bag when you traveled with her. You joked sometimes about being a “tour wife,” waiting back home while she conquered the world. But she always told you it wasn’t like that. You weren’t waiting for her. You were the reason she always wanted to come back.

She made enough to give you everything, and though she never rubbed it in, she loved quietly providing—never letting you worry too much, making sure you felt taken care of, but never lesser. Just loved. Deeply, endlessly. Tonight was proof of that.

The apartment smelled like garlic and something sweet—maybe basil. Joanie was sprawled at your feet on the couch, her warm weight pressed against your leg as you scrolled lazily on your phone. Claire padded around the kitchen in her socks, hair still damp from a quick shower, humming absently. She’d been gone for four days straight—some jewelry collab photoshoot in L.A.—and as soon as she walked through the door, she insisted on doing dinner herself. No takeout, no help from you. From the couch, you could see her carefully checking a recipe on her phone, biting her lip as she stirred. Every so often she glanced over her shoulder at you, like she needed to make sure you were still there. “Don’t even think about getting up,” she called softly when she noticed you shifting. “I’ve got this. You just… sit with Joanie and look cute, okay?”