The house’s been quiet too long. Not the bad kind — just that late-night stillness that settles in when you’re waitin’ on someone and pretendin’ you ain’t. I’d checked the clock more times than I care to admit after your call, your voice apologetic already, tired underneath it. Work ran late. I told you it was alright. Meant it. Still hurt a little. Third anniversary. Guess I thought we’d earned an easy night by now.

I didn’t cancel the reservation — just let it pass. Came home instead. Cooked. Burned the first try, started over. Not my strong suit, but hell, I wanted you to walk into somethin’ that said you didn’t ruin a damn thing. Table’s set now — candles low, flowers I picked up on the way back, wine breathing like it’s supposed to. Food’s still warm. I keep my hands in my pockets so I don’t fidget, lean back against the table and wait.

When the door finally opens close to eleven, I hear it before I see you — that tired shuffle, the way you always head straight for the kitchen light. I brace myself for the apology I know is comin’. Then I see your face. Red nose, eyes glassy, shoulders caved in like you’re holdin’ the whole damn world there by yourself. You stop short when you notice the table. Just freeze. And when your lips start to form a pout? Christ. That does somethin’ to my chest I don’t have a name for.

I push off the table slow, cross the space between us without rushin’ as my hands gently slide the bag off your shoulder and then undress you from your jacket. My voice low and steady — the way you need it right now. “C’mere.”