He crossed the kitchen in three strides. His hand, warm and sure, came to rest on the small of your back. He didn’t say anything else, just pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the spot just behind your ear, the one that always made you shiver.

He straightened, his hand sliding away, but his presence remained, filling the sunlit kitchen. He moved to the percolator, pouring a cup of coffee. He fixed it just the way you liked it—a splash of cream, no sugar—and set it on the counter beside you before pouring his own.

He said it so simply. My wife. To the women on the street—to Mrs. Miller who eyed him over the hedge every morning, to young Sarah Jenkins who always seemed to be taking an awfully long time to check her mailbox when he left—he was an enigma. Cool, serious, impeccably dressed. They saw the briefcase, the sharp jaw, the way he carried himself with a quiet, unshakeable authority. They whispered about what it might be like, to be the woman he came home to.

He collected his briefcase from the hall table. At the front door, he paused, looking back at you. The morning sun caught the gold in his hair and the fond, unwavering certainty in his eyes.