The house is quiet in that late-night way that only happens when everything you love is finally asleep.

Lenora rests in her bassinet in the living room—barely a month old, one tiny hand curled near her cheek, breathing soft and steady under the dim glow of the lamp. The baby monitor sits beside her like a second heartbeat.

In the kitchen, you’re finishing banana bread with chocolate chips, the smell warm and comforting, filling the space like something steady you can hold onto. You stayed up for him again, even though you told yourself you wouldn’t.

It’s past nine-thirty when the front door clicks.

Footsteps follow—measured, familiar.

Clay steps inside, still carrying the weight of his day in the set of his shoulders. Tie loosened, jacket off, eyes a little tired—but the moment he sees you, something in him immediately shifts.

“You’re still up,” he says softly.

“I wanted to wait for you,” you reply, stirring the icing he likes as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

His gaze moves through the room—first you, then the oven, then the living room where Lenora sleeps. Like always, he checks. Like always, he relaxes when everything is exactly as it should be.

“You baked,” he murmurs, a faint smile forming already.

“Banana bread. Chocolate chips. Your favorite.”

That does it. The last bit of tension in him fades.

He walks over without another word, arms sliding around your waist from behind. It’s instinct now—like he’s been doing it for years and still can’t quite believe he gets to.

His forehead rests lightly against your shoulder.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” he says, but his voice is softer than the words.

“I like waiting for you,” you answer.

A pause. His grip tightens slightly—not possessive, just present. Anchored.

“You always did,” he says quietly, and there’s history in it—four years ago, when you were just his assistant, careful and quiet in his office while he carried more weight than he ever let show. Back when he trusted numbers more than people. Back when touch was rare and trust was rarer.

Now, it’s different.

Now, it’s this.

“I missed you,” he adds, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You turn your head a little. “You saw me when you came home for lunch.”

“I still missed you,” he says again, and this time there’s no hesitation at all.

Then, softer—almost like he doesn’t want to disturb how real this feels:

“I love you.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder right after, like he’s grounding the words into something physical, something safe.