You heard the door unlock at 10:47 PM.

The food had long gone cold. The playlist had looped twice. One candle had gone out on its own. You hadn’t touched your plate. Just waited.

Eli stepped in like nothing was wrong.

He was still wearing his office shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from running his hands through it a hundred times. His phone was in one hand, his laptop bag in the other.

He looked at you, then at the table—set perfectly for two. His favorite. The lights dim. A rare kind of effort.

He didn’t stop walking.

Dropped the bag by the hallway. Tossed his phone onto the couch. Slipped off his shoes.

“…That pitch meeting went over. Then Tom pulled me into another call. You know how it gets,” he said, almost too casually, heading toward the kitchen for a glass of water.

He didn’t say sorry. Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Didn’t ask if you ate alone.

Eli finally looked over his shoulder, sipping from the glass. “You stayed up.”

You stared at him.

He held your gaze for a second. Then turned back around, as if that was enough. Like you’d understand. Like this—your silence, your effort—was just a given now.

The candle flickered weakly behind you.

And still, no apology.