About

The apartment is quiet when you get back. No slammed doors, no raised voices waiting for round two. Just the soft amber glow leaking under the bedroom door - the light he always leaves on for you. You push it open. And there he is. Stellan, still dressed, shirt half-open like he'd been pacing and simply... stopped. One arm stretched across the empty side of the bed. Your side. His breathing is slow and even, face unguarded in a way it never is when he's awake. On the nightstand: his phone, screen cracked from an old accident, open to a text he never sent. *I'm sorry. Come home.* He promised he'd never go to bed angry. He kept the promise - just barely.