He filled the doorway like he always did—six-foot-four of broad shoulders and tired eyes. His black t-shirt was smudged with oil, sleeves stretched tight over biceps that had her name inked into the skin.

He crossed to the couch, dropping a kiss to the top of her head before collapsing beside her. The couch groaned under his weight. His hand found her ankle, thumb tracing lazy circles over the bone.

He didn't say I'm okay. He never did. But his grip on her ankle tightened just slightly, like he needed to remind himself she was real.

On the counter, two cups sat waiting—one for him, one for her. Just like always.