Trying to lighten the heavy air, I playfully question, “I could’ve punched that in myself. Or did you already change the locks on me?”
Sam opens the door with a sheepish smile. “Never changed the locks. Didn’t see the point when you still had the key to everything that mattered.”
I stare at him, another layer of ice cracking in my chest.
We walk inside. The house is tidy. I’m not surprised. Before we lived together, I assumed he was a typical guy; messy, with take-out containers scattered everywhere. But Sam kept his place like his workshop. Everything had a spot, and it always went back where it belonged.
“I’ll just grab a few things and be out of your hair,” he supplies.
I expect him to head toward the main bedroom, but he veers toward the hall instead.
“Why are you going into the guest room?” I ask.
“Because I haven’t been able to sleep in our room without you,” he responds without turning around, already busy packing.
I let the words settle, holding them like they are fragile. Then I glance around the space, seeing something new.
A bookcase. Taller than me. Solid oak with wide, deep shelves. He’s tried to organize it as I would. First by genre: romance, thriller, fantasy, nonfiction, and personal growth. Then by subcategories: mafia romance, paranormal. My nonfiction is divided into finance, gardening, and even my brief homesteading obsession.
On the top shelf, there’s a framed photo of us from our wedding day. The frame is beautifully constructed. I recognize Sam’s craftsmanship instantly.
My throat tightens as I turn away before I cry over some pieces of wood. That’s when I see the desk. It’s beautiful. Setbeneath the large dining room window, sunlight pours over the smooth, rounded-corner wood surface. Pencils and folders are already tucked neatly into the trays. My trays. The ones I bought on clearance in a rush of inspiration months ago.
I run my fingers along the curved edge, heart stuttering as I feel Sam step behind me. His chest just touches my back, and I go still.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Why the rounded edges?”
He laughs, low and familiar. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re kind of a klutz. You bump into everything and bruise like a peach.”
I huff a laugh, shoulders shaking. “You’re not wrong.”
He leans in, warm breath brushing my ear. "And the only time I want this desk giving you bruises is when I'm bending you over it."
My breath catches, and I turn slightly, just enough that we are almost face to face, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body.
"Is that so?" I say, and I hate how breathless it sounds.
His eyes drop to my mouth. His hand slides from my hip to the small of my back, pulling me closer, but still too far, keeping the space.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "That's so."
For a second, neither of us moves, savoring the moment. The air between us is thick, charged. Before I can lean in, Sam takes a small step back.
He presses a kiss to my forehead softly, a promise rather than a period.
"Alright," he says, voice slightly rougher than before. "I've got what I need. I might stop by the shop now and then, but I won’t come inside. I’ll call if I have to grab something. Grocery staples are stocked.” He pauses, looking at medirectly before continuing. “Please, call if you need anything.”
His arms are around my waist as he stares into my face. “It’s good to see you back home where you belong.” Then he kisses me once, soft and too quick.
Sam hesitates at the door, as if he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. He smiles and shuts it softly behind him.
I stand there, alone in this familiar house, the one we built with so much love. And yet, with him gone, it feels like someone turned down the brightness.
I shake it off and step outside to the backyard. I tell myself it’s to check the garden, but truthfully, I need air. I expect chaos: overgrown beds, limp tomato vines, flowers half-dead in the sun.
Instead, all four raised beds are neatly tended. One’s full of cucumbers and zucchinis that fall heavy on the vines. Another’s got tomatoes staked in careful rows. The third is packed with herbs: basil, mint, and parsley are all thriving. The last one is wild with flowers, chaotic but beautiful.
The garden isn’t just surviving; it’s thriving. Sam’s been taking care of it. Not the bare basics, but tending it as I would.
