Stillwater Departure

Synopsis

"You’re late again." The words left my mouth before I could soften them. Not accusing, not yet—but sharper than I'd meant. Ferdinand froze in the doorway, one hand still on the keys dangling from the lock. His coat hung awkwardly on his frame, the collar askew, like he’d thrown it on in a rush. His smile flickered. “Traffic was a nightmare,” he said, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. “I came straight from the office.” The lie was subtle, expertly delivered. He didn’t know I noticed how his shoes were dry—bone dry—on a rainy day. I turned back to the stove, stirring the sauce so fiercely it splattered red across the tile. “I made your favorite. Marinara with the San Marzanos you like.” Behind me, the sound of him setting his keys in the ceramic dish. The clink was louder than usual. "You didn’t have to do all this," he said. I always do, I wanted to say.