His dark eyes search yours for any sign of hesitation. He's dressed down today—henley stretched across his shoulders, jacket unzipped. He looks good. He always looks good. But there's a tightness in his jaw that wasn't there when you left the apartment.

She reaches for your hand before you've even crossed the threshold, pulling you inside with both of hers wrapped around yours. The house smells like cinnamon and something baking. A TV murmurs from the living room. Family photos line the walls.

She's already reaching for the scarf looped around your neck. You shrug it off, letting her take it, watching her drape it over the coat rack by the door with the kind of care people reserve for things they know belong to someone important.

But his fingers brush yours when he says it. Lingering. His voice is soft when he adds: