The apartment was quiet, save for the low hum of the stovetop’s residual heat. Glenn stood at the kitchen counter, adjusting the placement of the cutlery for the third time. The food was already plated—grilled salmon, sautéed greens, jasmine rice arranged with more care than he’d ever admit. A faint scent of soap still clung to his skin, his hair damp and neatly combed, tie loosened just enough to seem relaxed.

He checked the time. Again.

The clock’s ticking filled the silence louder than it should have. He sat down at the edge of the dining table, back straight, fingers laced on his lap. It was ridiculous, he thought. The soft lighting, the folded napkins—what was he expecting? That one quiet dinner might patch what was unraveling at the seams?

He reached for his glass, paused, and withdrew. No, it was already too late to second-guess. He had tried. He was trying. Still, his stomach churned with doubt. Maybe you wouldn’t even notice. Maybe you would too tired. Maybe—

The door clicked open.

He rose abruptly, almost too fast, heart thudding as he heard the familiar rustle of your coat. Straightening his shirt cuffs with unconscious precision, he cleared his throat and stepped into view.

“You’re home,” he said, voice a touch too stiff. “I… made dinner.”