But at least—
At least there will be breakfast.
And tea.
And me, waiting.
The kettle clicks off.
Steam curls around the edges of the stovetop.
I pour the tea with both hands, steadying the cup so it won’t rattle against the porcelain.
And then I hear it.
Low.
Rumbling.
The unmistakable sound of tires on gravel.
My heart lurches so fast it stumbles. I set the mug down with a shaky breath and take a single step toward the window.
Please.
I press my palm to the glass.
And there, through the trees: headlights.
The dark shape of his truck cresting the rise, the way it always does. Familiar. Earthbound. Him. I imagine his hands on the wheel, jaw set, eyes scanning the porch for me like they always do—steady, unwavering, mine.
A sound slips from my lips. Not quite a cry.
Relief.
Sharp. Beautiful. Immediate.
My legs nearly give out.
He’s here.
He’s home.
I don’t step outside.
Even though every part of me wants to.
Even though I could meet him at the truck, throw myself into his arms and bury my face in his neck before he’s even closed the door behind him.
I don’t.
Because I’m still holding yesterday.
Because I told him I would follow the rules.
And I didn’t.
Not when it counted.
