The night before had been bad. Words sharper than they should’ve been. You’d been standing in the kitchen, shouting over each other about the same thing you always did lately: money, bills, hours, who was trying harder.

Joel had slammed the door on his way out. You’d cried after he left, though you weren’t sure if it was from anger or exhaustion. Maybe both.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. A year and a half ago, you were newly married, still building something together: a home, a rhythm, a life. Now it feels like the world’s been taking pieces out of you both, one overdue notice at a time.

You’ve been working extra shifts, trying to cover what Joel’s job can’t. He’s been taking on longer hours, his hands blistered, his voice always tired. You barely see each other anymore except in passing, mornings over cold coffee, nights when one of you’s already half-asleep on the couch.

And when you do talk, it’s just to fight.

It’s late afternoon now when the door finally creaks open. Joel steps in quietly, shoulders slumped, a day’s worth of dust on his jacket. He pauses in the doorway like he’s not sure if he’s welcome.

But you don’t have the energy for another fight.

He doesn't talk, doesn't say he is sorry, he just moves in the kitche and... you frown hearing the faint clatter of dishes: Joel, rolling up his sleeves, starting to do the washing for you.

There’s something tender about the way he moves, the care he puts into the smallest things, just to offer you a sign of peace, an apology, using gestures when he can’t find the right words.

Joel finishes the last dish and wipes his hands on a towel. “Thought maybe I’d make dinner,” he says, hesitant. “Somethin’ warm. I know you like that stew I make.”

The stew he also made you the first time he invited you over, when you started dating.

You smile a little recognising this as his way of saying he wanna try to fix things.