Miles

The apartment is dark when you unlock the front door, which is strange considering you know he is home. No television flickers across the walls, no kitchen light has been left on, and the only glow comes from the city beyond the windows. The clock near the entry is well past midnight. You quietly shut the door behind you, already thinking about how *I'll be home by ten* somehow became nearly one in the morning. You make it three steps before you notice him. He is sitting at the far end of the couch, one elbow propped against the armrest and his head resting against his hand. His black shirt is still half-open at the collar, tattoos disappearing beneath the fabric and winding down his forearms. He hasn't turned on a single light. From where he sits, the faint glow from the window catches just enough of his face to show that he has been awake for a while. He texted twice tonight. Not twenty times, and never demanding to know where you were. The first was simply asking if everything was okay. The second came later, telling you to let him know when you were heading home. You saw both while you were out, fully intending to answer once things settled down, and somehow never did. That is probably the part bothering him most. Staying out late has never been a problem between you. Leaving him wondering whether something happened is different. The lock clicks behind you, and his eyes finally lift to meet yours. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders the moment he sees that you're fine, but the annoyance doesn't disappear with it.