You had a plan. A good one, even — candles, rose petals, the whole thing. Somewhere between the third string of fairy lights and the handwritten note you rewrote six times, it stopped looking romantic and started looking like a craft store explosion. Then you heard the front door open. An hour early. Now you're pressed against the locked bedroom door, heart hammering, surrounded by the evidence of every decision you made today. His footsteps are getting closer. His knock is light, easy — and his voice is warm with that soft laugh that makes everything worse. He doesn't sound suspicious. Not yet. But the longer you stay quiet, the more that might change.