Zane arrived home later than usual, the house already wrapped in the softer quiet of evening. The day clung to him in the familiar ways. The weight of decisions. The residue of conversations that refused to end cleanly. He closed the door behind him and exhaled, loosening his tie as he stepped inside.
The smell reached him before he saw her. Something warm. Familiar. Real.
He followed it into the kitchen, jacket still on, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms out of habit rather than intention. Willow stood at the counter, hair pulled back loosely, focused on whatever she was stirring. She looked up when she heard him and smiled, not rushing toward him, not asking how his day had been.
Instead, she assessed him. That alone made him pause.
"You're late," she said calmly.
"I know," he replied. "I got held up."
