The alarm went off at 6:30, a quiet chime that sounded far gentler than it felt.
Alexander turned it off almost immediately, his hand fumbling for the phone. The room was still grey with dawn — the colour of hesitation.
Amelia stirred beside him, eyes half-open. "Already?"
He nodded, brushing her hair from her face. "The earlier flight. They rescheduled."
Of course they had. They always did.
He kissed her forehead. "Go back to sleep."
But she didn't.
She lay there, listening to the soft rhythm of drawers opening and closing, the faint scrape of hangers, the whisper of a zipper. Every sound of him getting ready had become its own language — one she both knew and hated.
Downstairs, the kettle hummed.
Oliver sat at the table in his pyjamas, legs swinging off the chair, chewing on toast. His hair was sticking up in every direction — soft, defiant.
"Daddy, you're going to the sky again?" he asked.
Alexander smiled, pouring coffee into a travel mug. "Yes, but not for long."
"Two sleeps?"
"Maybe three."
Amelia caught his eyes across the table — the quiet lie that was supposed to make things easier.
Oliver frowned. "You always say three sleeps."
Alexander crouched, resting a hand on his son's small shoulder. "Then this time I'll try to make it true."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
They touched pinkies, a ritual that always made Amelia's throat tighten.
By 7:30 the house was moving in quiet efficiency — Oliver's bag packed, Amelia's blazer buttoned, the car keys waiting in the bowl by the door.
She tied Oliver's shoes while Alexander adjusted his tie in the hallway mirror.
"You look tired," she said softly.
He glanced at her reflection. "I didn't sleep much."
"Neither did I."
Their eyes met in the mirror — an entire conversation in one silent second.
Then Oliver came running with his jacket. "I'm ready!"
"Let's go, then," Amelia said, forcing brightness into her voice.
Alexander hesitated for a beat. "I'll drop you both."
"No," she said gently. "You'll miss the airport check-in."
He sighed. "You sure?"
She nodded. "We'll be fine."
He leaned down, kissed her — soft, familiar.
"I'll call tonight," he said.
She smiled. "I'll believe it when I see it."
He half-smiled back, and for a moment it almost felt like the easy teasing of years ago.
Almost.
The drive to the nursery was lined with wet pavements and pale light filtering through clouds.
Oliver hummed in the back seat, his small voice filling the silence between them.
"Mommy," he said suddenly, "when I grow up, I'm going to build a plane. Then Daddy won't need to leave — he can fly home every day."
Amelia smiled, eyes wet. "That's a wonderful idea, sweetheart."
He grinned proudly. "It'll have pancakes inside."
"That's the most important part."
At the nursery door, he hugged her with both arms and a loud kiss on her cheek.
"Bye, Mommy."
"Bye, love. Have the best day."
She watched him run off to hang his coat, calling out greetings to his friends. He didn't look back — secure in the promise that she'd be there when the day ended.
The moment the door closed, the quiet came rushing in.
By 9:00, Amelia was already at her desk.
The office smelled of coffee and printer ink, the low murmur of early meetings echoing down the hallway.
Her monitor flickered awake; her inbox blinked with fifty-two unread messages.
Routine was a kind of mercy.
She opened the HR reports, lost herself in percentages, training metrics, performance grids — anything that required her brain more than her heart.
But when she glanced at the corner of her desk, her phone was still there — screen dark, no new messages.
She thought about calling him, just to wish him luck for the meetings.
Then she remembered his words last night: I already did.
And so she didn't.
At 11:45, Margaret appeared by her door, smiling.
"Amelia, have you seen the update from the New York expansion team? The CEO's meeting the new consultant in person again this week."
Amelia's hand stilled on the mouse.
"Again?"
"Yes. Elena something. Davenport, I think. Brilliant woman — everyone's talking about her." Margaret laughed lightly. "They say she's saving the project."
Amelia smiled politely. "I'm sure she is."
When Margaret left, she sat perfectly still, staring at the report without reading a word.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the clouds hadn't moved.
By the time she left the office that evening, the air smelled like wet asphalt and the city was painted in gold from the streetlights.
Oliver's laughter when she picked him up melted the weight of the day.
They walked home hand in hand, jumping over puddles, his chatter filling the quiet corners of her mind.
But when she tucked him into bed later and the house went still again, she reached for her phone without meaning to.
No new messages.
She opened the photo folder — found the one from last week: Alexander holding Oliver upside down in the garden, both of them laughing.
She stared at it until her eyes blurred.
"Three sleeps," she whispered to herself. "Just three sleeps."
Then she turned off the light and let the silence settle again — heavy, patient, and familiar.
…
New York smelled like rain and ambition.
The moment Alexander stepped off the plane, his phone began to vibrate — calendar alerts, emails, two messages from his assistant. The city didn't wait for anyone; it simply absorbed you.
He adjusted his tie as the car pulled away from JFK. The skyline rose through the fog like glass teeth.
He'd slept two hours, maybe three. Amelia's perfume still lingered faintly on his cuffs — that soft, clean scent that made him ache with homesickness before he'd even left home.
He wanted to call her.
He didn't.
She'd be at work now, maybe on her second coffee, Oliver probably colouring rocket ships in class.
He imagined her laugh — the quiet one, not the polite one she used in meetings. The one that made the world seem less sharp.
The thought almost made him smile.
By the time he reached the Manhattan office, the day was already in motion.
"Morning, Mr. Harrington," said the receptionist, handing him a stack of folders. "Ms. Davenport's waiting in conference room three."
Of course she was. Elena Davenport was always early.
He pushed open the glass door to find her exactly as expected — standing by the window, tablet in hand, city sprawling behind her like a living painting.
"Welcome back," she said, smiling.
"Elena," he nodded, setting his briefcase down. "How's the east coast treating you?"
"Productive chaos, as usual." She gestured toward the table. "I've drafted the presentation flow for the investor dinner. I thought we could review it before lunch."
He liked her precision — the way she spoke in solutions, not problems.
Working with her was easy, efficient. That was the danger.
Hours blurred into one another. Meetings, calls, charts.
By three o'clock, they were both still in the boardroom, laptops open, the table scattered with notes and empty coffee cups.
Elena leaned back, stretching her neck. "You ever realise how these days feel like they're made of minutes, not hours?"
He looked up from his notes. "Constantly."
She smiled faintly. "You've got that look. The 'I haven't slept properly since 2019' one."
He chuckled. "My wife says the same."
"She sounds wise."
"She is."
Elena's tone softened. "You talk about her a lot."
He hesitated, fingers stilling over the keyboard. "Do I?"
"Mm-hmm. Every time we hit a tough call, you start a sentence with 'Amelia would say…' or 'Amelia thinks…'"
He smiled, half embarrassed. "She has a habit of being right."
"She must be impressive."
"She is," he said quietly.
Elena nodded, her expression unreadable. "You know, it's rare — people in our world still talking about their partners like that."
He looked at her, puzzled. "Our world?"
"The one that never stops. The one that doesn't make room for people. Most of us stopped trying to hold onto anything years ago."
He frowned slightly. "That's… bleak."
She laughed. "Pragmatic."
They shared a look — not flirtatious, just understanding. The kind that feels like relief after months of being misunderstood.
By early evening, the building had emptied.
They were still there — finalising slides, double-checking figures.
When they finally stopped, the city outside had turned gold and violet.
Elena closed her laptop. "We should eat. You'll collapse if you don't."
He hesitated. "It's late. I'll grab room service."
She tilted her head. "There's a small place two blocks down. Quiet, no reporters, no clients. Just food and silence. You could use both."
He should have said no.
But the truth was, he hadn't eaten since breakfast, and the thought of sitting alone in another silent hotel room made his chest feel heavy.
"Alright," he said finally. "Dinner. Then I'm going back to write investor notes."
"Deal."
The restaurant was small, tucked between a florist and a bookstore.
Candlelight, warm wood, the kind of place people went to escape the noise outside.
They ordered pasta and wine; Elena talked about her years consulting for European firms, her brief marriage, the time she almost moved to Singapore "for love, or something like it."
Alexander listened, smiled, nodded — polite, measured, distant.
But somewhere between her dry humour and the wine, he felt a strange ease settle over him.
She spoke the way he used to — fast, witty, unapologetic. It reminded him of the man he'd been before the weight of responsibility turned every word into calculation.
And when she laughed — a low, warm laugh that belonged in a room like this — he realised how long it had been since he'd heard laughter that wasn't filtered through exhaustion.
"Does your wife like New York?" she asked at one point, swirling her wine.
"She's never been."
"Maybe she should come next time."
He smiled faintly. "She doesn't like flying. Or the way this city never stops moving."
"Then you balance each other."
"I suppose we do."
She met his gaze across the table — steady, assessing. "You look tired, Alexander."
"I am," he admitted.
"Then go home. To her. To him. Before you forget what tired even means."
Her tone wasn't flirtation, it was truth.
And somehow, that made it hit harder.
He paid the bill, thanked her, and walked back to the hotel through the city lights, the night humming around him.
When he reached his room, he checked his phone —
no messages.
He thought of Amelia's hands, Oliver's laugh, the smell of pancakes in the morning.
He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, and whispered,
"Three sleeps."