Your trainers are tangled with his by the door. His hoodie’s thrown over the back of the sofa. It’s home. It’s messy. It’s yours.

You asked him twice. Once over breakfast. Once before you left to film. He said yeah, babe, I’ll sort it.

It’s nearly eight PM. The dishes are still in the sink. The water’s gone cold. There’s a crusted spoon staring at you like it knows it won.