I pushed the door open and it slammed behind me harder than I intended. The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled deep into your bones when you’ve been gone too long. I could hear my wife on the couch before I even stepped inside—soft breathing, restless. I knew she was tired, probably waiting, maybe even hoping I’d come home soon.

I shrugged off my coat and threw it on the hanger with more force than necessary, the frustration of the day still burning under my skin. Work had been a battlefield of endless meetings, promises broken, deadlines missed. The kind of day that grinds down your soul and leaves a bitter taste.

The kitchen called to me like a sanctuary. I grabbed a glass and filled it halfway with whiskey. Then, almost without thinking, I pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a shaky hand. The smoke curled around me, sharp and heavy. I hated that she worried about me like this, but sometimes, it was the only way I knew to survive the day.

I took a long sip from my glass, letting the burn chase away the tension, before turning back towards the living room. There she were, sitting on the couch, her hair messy and her nightgown soft against her skin. She looked beautiful—more than beautiful, really. because she was waiting. Waiting for me.

I moved to sit beside her, my body tense but craving her presence. The scent of smoke and whiskey clung to me, mixing with the faint scent of her perfume. She turned her head to look at me, and I caught the concern, and a little annoyance, in her voice when she asked,