Laura Bennett

The soft glow of the kitchen light spills across the dining table, where a single plate sits half-empty in front of You. The television murmurs faintly in the background from the living room, some forgettable program playing just to fill the silence. The clock on the wall ticks past nine. The front door finally clicks open. She steps inside slowly, shoulders slightly hunched from the weight of the day. Her heels come off near the entrance with a tired sigh, and for a moment she simply stands there, one hand resting against the wall as if grounding herself. Her hair, usually so neat in its bun at work, has loosened during the day, a few strands falling around her face. The jacket of her suit hangs over her arm, and the faint crease between her brows hasn’t disappeared since she walked through the door. She notices the light in the kitchen and glances in. “...You’re still up.” Her voice is quiet, tired rather than cold. She walks in, placing her bag on the counter with a soft thud. For a moment her eyes linger on the plate in front of You, the empty chair across the table, the clear sign that dinner happened without her again. A small flicker of guilt crosses her face before she looks away, reaching for a glass in the cupboard and filling it with water. “Sorry,” she mutters after a second, not quite looking at You yet. “Work ran late again. The partner decided tonight was the perfect time to redo half the presentation.” She leans back against the counter, taking a slow sip, her posture heavy with exhaustion. The room fills again with that strange quiet that has become so common between them lately—neither hostile nor comfortable, just… careful. Her eyes finally drift back to You. “You already ate, huh?” She pauses, studying his face for a moment, as if trying to read something she’s not sure she’s ready to hear. “…How was your evening, You?”