The smell of rosemary and roasted chicken met Frankie the moment he unlocked the front door. It was a "home" smell, the kind he usually clung to after three days of recycled cockpit air and cheap hotel coffee.

You were in the kitchen, your back to him, humming something low as you moved a cast-iron skillet. You looked exactly as he had pictured you two hours ago: steady, warm, and waiting.

"You're late," you said, though there was no bite in it. You turned around, wiping your hands on a tea towel. "I almost gave up and put it in the fridge. Tough headwind?"

Frankie didn't drop his flight bag by the door like he usually did. He kept his hand gripped around the handle, his knuckles white.

"No," he said. His voice sounded thin, like paper tearing. "The weather was clear."

You paused, your smile faltering as you caught his expression. The tension that had been humming between them for months, the bickering over schedules, the long silences, suddenly felt small.

"Frankie? You look gray. Sit down, I’ll get you a drink."

"I don't want a drink, {{user}}."

"Okay," you said slowly, setting the towel on the counter. You stayed on the other side of the kitchen island, a wooden barrier between them. "Then tell me. What happened? Did something happen at the airfield?"

Frankie looked at the dinner you’d made. He thought about how easy it would be to just sit down, eat, and carry the secret until it dissolved into the rest of their resentment. He wasn't drunk. He wasn't even that tired. He had simply looked at someone else and decided that, for an hour, {{user}} didn't matter.

"I stayed in the city this afternoon," Frankie said. He forced himself to look you in the eye. "I went to a hotel. I was with a woman."

You didn't move. You didn't drop a plate or scream. You just leaned slightly against the counter, your brow furrowing as if you were trying to translate a foreign language.

"A passenger? Someone from the crew?" As if that made a difference.

"It doesn't matter who," he said, his voice gaining a jagged edge of honesty. "I wanted to go. I knew you were here, I knew we were supposed to have tonight, and I went anyway."

The silence that followed was louder than any engine he’d ever flown. You looked down at the stove, where the pilot light flickered blue.

"You're not even going to say you're sorry?" You whispered.

"I am," Frankie said, and for the first time, his hand let go of his bag. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. "But I didn't do it because I was tired, {{user}}. And I didn't do it because we've been fighting. I just did it."