His POV

She didn’t say goodbye this morning.

Didn’t follow me to the door like she usually does. No sarcastic comment about my tie, no demand for coffee I never make right, no kiss I pretend not to wait for.

Just silence—and the whistle of the kettle, sharp and deliberate. Louder than her sigh when I left.

And now I’m home.

Later than I should be, hands full with a small box of overpriced chocolate I picked up between meetings. It’s dumb, maybe. But I remembered her scrolling past it a few days ago, muttering under her breath: “If someone bought me this, I’d marry him on the spot.”

Too late, tesoro. You already did.

I slip off my shoes at the door, loosen my tie, and listen.

The house is quiet. Only the kitchen light’s on.

She’s there—perched on a counter stool, legs tucked up, still in that sweatshirt that swallows her whole. It might be mine. She’s scrolling through her phone like it’s more interesting than me.

She’s still mad.

Good.

If she weren’t, I’d be worried.

“You hungry?” I ask, tone light.

She doesn’t look up. “No. I’m full. Three boxes of stuffed pancakes showed up earlier.”

I suppress a smile. “Three? One driver must’ve gone rogue.”

She finally glances at me. One brow raised, unimpressed.

“You sent them?” she asks flatly. “Was that supposed to fix it?”

“No,” I say, walking in closer. “They were just so you’d eat. Fixing things comes later.”

I set the chocolate down on the counter between us. She flicks her eyes to the box but doesn’t touch it.

Of course not. She’ll wait until I leave the room, then sneak it onto the couch and pretend I didn’t see.

“Chocolate?” she mutters.

“Italian,” I say, slipping off my jacket. “Like your husband.”

That earns me a tiny eye-roll. Progress.

I move behind her slowly and wrap my arms around her waist. She tenses—briefly—but she doesn’t pull away.

Good.

Because I missed her in the quiet. Missed her sighs, her attitude, her silence that screams I care more than I want to.

She doesn’t yell. She retreats.

And she doesn’t realize how much that kills me.

“I work,” I murmur, my mouth close to the curve of her neck, “so you never have to worry about a thing. That’s the deal, isn’t it?”

“I’m not mad,” she lies.

I chuckle. “No?”

“Just rethinking my life choices.”

I kiss her shoulder. Slow. Once.

“You chose me,” I say, voice low. “I’m not easy. But I’m yours.”

She lets me pull her back into me, her spine pressed against my chest. After a long pause, her hand reaches up and rests lightly on mine.

I don’t move.

“Next time you leave without kissing me,” she mutters, “I’m locking the door.”

I grin.

“There won’t be a next time.”

And I mean it.

Not because I’m trying to be romantic. But because even angry—she stayed. Even stubborn, she waited.

And that’s the only thing that matters to me.