I told myself it was fine. It always was. These things happened. Still, there was a low-level fatigue that came with knowing I’d need to mentally walk him through a task I normally handled without thinking.
Even as I tried to shake it off, that quiet expectation lingered, settling into the background of my thoughts.
Time passed. I moved through the house, straightening cushions, rinsing a mug left on the counter, listening for the sound of his car in the driveway. When the front door finally opened, grocery bags rustled—a soft, unmistakable sound that usually barely registered.
He stepped inside, cheeks slightly pink from the cold, hair tousled by the wind. He set the bags down on the kitchen counter and began unloading them one by one, the rhythm familiar and unhurried.
