Don’t rush it.
“I thought you left,” she says finally.
The words land hard.
Not because I don’t understand.
Because I do.
“I went downstairs,” I tell her. “I didn’t leave.”
“You were gone,” she says. “The bed was empty and?—”
Her voice catches.
And yeah?—
That hits.
“I get why you thought that,” I say quietly. “I do.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me, searching my face like she’s bracing for something.
“But I didn’t,” I add. “I’m still here.”
A beat.
“You didn’t even leave a note,” she says, and there’s a hint of frustration there now, cutting through the leftover hurt.
“That’s on me,” I admit. “I should’ve.”
“You should have,” she agrees.
“I didn’t think you’d wake up that fast.”
She stares at me. “That is not a good excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“Good.”
I nod once. “It won’t happen again.”
Silence settles between us for a second.
Not tense.
Just… recalibrating.
Then she glances down at the counter.
At the bag.
“At least tell me you didn’t leave just to… grocery shop.”
I huff out a breath. “I didn’t leave. I went downstairs.”
“Why?”
