Shane woke up with a dull ache in his neck.
The couch was too short for him, but he hadn't moved all night. For a moment, he forgot why he was there. Then he remembered—waiting for Layla, listening for the door, pretending not to be hurt when she came in late.
He sat up slowly and glanced toward the bedroom.
The door was closed.
Layla hadn't woken him. She hadn't even checked if he was still there.
Shane stood, washed his face, and went to the kitchen. He made breakfast out of habit—two plates, two cups of coffee. The routine felt strangely heavy.
When Layla finally stepped out of the bedroom, she looked refreshed. Calm. Almost… distant.
"Morning," she said casually.
"Morning," Shane replied. He watched her closely. "You came in late."
She paused for half a second. "The dinner ran longer than expected."
"Oh," he said. "How was it?"
"Productive," Layla answered. She picked up her phone, already scrolling. "I made some good connections."
Shane nodded, but something inside him tightened.
"You didn't wake me," he said quietly.
Layla froze.
"I thought you were sleeping," she replied. "I didn't want to disturb you."
But Shane remembered clearly—he hadn't been asleep. He had been waiting.
They ate in silence.
For the first time in years, Shane felt like a guest in his own home.
As Layla grabbed her bag and headed for the door, Shane finally spoke. "Layla… are we okay?"
She stopped, her back to him.
"We're fine," she said. "You're just overthinking."
Then she left.
Shane stared at the closed door long after she was gone, a single thought echoing in his mind:
Since when did 'fine' feel this empty?