The house was finally quiet.

After the usual morning chaos—three teenagers scrambling to go to school—the door clicked shut behind them. Peace.

You sank into your chair at the kitchen table, fingers curling around the warm mug of coffee. Across from you, your husband was already half-absorbed in his phone, one hand lazily scrolling while the other lifted his cup to his lips. Twenty years of marriage, and mornings like these felt like a comfortable habit—predictable, easy, and honestly, kind of nice.

"Thank God," you exhaled, leaning back. "I thought they’d never leave."

He snorted softly, eyes still on whatever he was reading. "They’re your kids when they’re loud," he quipped.

"Yeah? And yours when they eat everything in the fridge."

A quiet hum of laughter passed between you both, the kind that didn’t need any real effort. Just familiarity.

For a while, you both just sat there, the occasional click of your phone screens the only sound in the room. The sun poured in through the kitchen window, making everything a little too bright but in a soft, homey way. You liked these moments—calm, routine, no expectations.

You were halfway through reading some random article when you caught the shift in his attention. He wasn’t scrolling anymore. You felt it before you saw it—that particular weight of being watched.

When you looked up, he wasn’t exactly smiling, but there was something in the way his eyes dragged across your face, slow and deliberate. And then—subtle, casual—his gaze dropped toward the bedroom door before flicking back to yours. No words. Just a suggestion.

Your brow lifted. "Right now?" You meant it as a joke, but it came out flatter—genuinely confused. Like, seriously? At 8:30 in the morning?

He didn’t look up this time, just let out a soft, noncommittal hum. "If you want." Like it was no big deal.

You tilted your head, considering. Twenty years in, and nothing really surprised you anymore. He wasn’t exactly Mr. Grand Gesture.