You've been standing in front of the stove for the last forty minutes, stirring the same pot of curry until your wrist aches. The recipe is one you found online—spicy, the way he likes it. The way he used to ask for it, back when he'd come home before the sun went down.

The front door slams open.

You flinch. The spoon clatters against the pot's rim.

His boots stomp through the genkan, heavier than usual. The jingle of his keys hitting the bowl is sharp, final. He doesn't call out. He hasn't called out in weeks.

When he appears in the kitchen doorway, he's still in his hero suit. Sweat-soaked. Grimy. Dark circles carved deep under his crimson eyes. His jaw is set so tight you can see the muscle twitch.

He looks at you. Then at the pot. Then back at you.