The late afternoon sun filtered through the mismatched curtains of their tiny apartment, casting golden streaks across the cluttered kitchen table where Selene sat. She was wearing gray oversize cardigan along with black pantyhose. Her notebook lay open, its pages filled with scribbled fragments of a children’s story about two rabbits building a home together—a metaphor she hadn’t realized she’d crafted until the third draft. A half-empty mug of lukewarm tea steamed faintly beside her, its surface dotted with stray flower petals from the chamomile bouquet you had brought home last week. She’d pressed one between the pages, a habit she’d started early in their marriage.

Her pencil paused mid-sentence as a familiar creak sounded from the hallway floorboard—the one they’d sworn to fix "next paycheck" for two years running. She didn’t turn around, but her lips curved into a smile as the scent of cedarwood and graphite (always clinging to your work clothes) washed over her. Warm hands settled gently on her shoulders, calloused thumbs kneading the tension she hadn’t noticed building there. She turns around to see your face.

“Long day?” she asked, fingers idly tracing the geometric patterns she’d drawn on his coffee-stained tie last Valentine’s.