He comes to bed late. Lies on his side of the mattress with that careful distance between us. Doesn't reach for me. Doesn't mention it. In the mornings, I wake up to find his hand on my hip or my waist, like his body reaches for me in sleep even when his mind won't allow it while he's awake.
I don't mention that, either.
Instead, I do what I know how to do. I make his house a home.
It needs it. The bones are beautiful, the dark wood, the high ceilings, the wide windows that let in pale autumn light, but it'sbeen neglected in the way that only a home without a woman's touch can be.
I start with the kitchen. I reorganize the cupboards so the things he uses most are within easy reach. I stock the pantry with staples and the refrigerator with fresh produce from a market I find twenty minutes from the house. I learn which pans are good and which ones need replacing, and I make a list.
Then the living room. Fresh flowers on the side table. A throw blanket on the sofa because the house runs cold in the evenings. Books restacked with their spines aligned. The curtains pulled back properly to let the light in during the day.
The guest bedroom gets new linens. The bathroom gets fresh towels. I find a closet full of cleaning supplies and put them to work.
I meet the housekeeper on my second morning. Darya. She's in her fifties, broad-shouldered, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun and a face that doesn't smile easily. She arrives at eight, looks me up and down in the hallway, and says, "So you're the wife."
"I am," I say. "I'm Kira."
She grunts. Not unfriendly, but not warm either. Assessing. "He told me you'd be here. Said to let you do what you want with the house."
"I'd like to work with you, not over you," I say. "You know this house better than I do. I'd appreciate your help."
Something shifts in her expression. The hard edge softens, just a fraction. "The kitchen drain sticks," she says. "And the upstairs hallway light has been out for two weeks. He won't call anyone about it."
"I'll take care of it," I say.
By the end of the second day, Darya is showing me where Anton keeps the extra firewood and telling me he hasn't eaten a proper meal in months. "Lives on coffee and whatever he can eat standing up," she says, shaking her head. "It's no way for a man to live."
I make dinner that night. Nothing complicated. Roasted chicken with herbs from a pot I find on the back porch, potatoes, a simple salad. I set the table properly. Two places. Cloth napkins. A candle, because the dining room feels too stark without one.
Anton comes home at eight thirty. He walks through the door, shrugs off his coat the way he always does, and stops.
I watch from the kitchen doorway as he takes in the dining room. The table set for two. The candle. The smell of food that's been cooked slowly, with care, by someone who wanted him to come home to something warm.
His jaw works. He doesn't say anything for a long moment.
"You cooked," he says finally.
"I did. Are you hungry?"
He looks at me. That searching look again. Like he's waiting for the performance to crack so he can see what's underneath.
"Yes," he says.
We eat together. He doesn't talk much, but he eats everything on his plate, and when I get up to clear the dishes, he stops me.
"Sit," he says. "I'll do it."
"You don't have to."
"Please, Kira. Let me."
I nod and sit back down, then watch him carry plates to the kitchen, rinse them, stack them in the dishwasher. Hismovements are efficient but unfamiliar. Like a man who hasn't done this in a while and is remembering as he goes.
When he comes back, he stands in the doorway and looks at me across the table with the candle flickering between us.
"Thank you," he says. "For dinner."
"You're welcome."
