Back at home, Aeri stood in the kitchen, the clock ticking past 8 p.m, the room warm with the smell of sizzling food—some stir-fry she was whipping up, veggies popping in the pan, a pot of rice bubbling soft on the stove.
Music played from a little speaker on the shelf and she hummed along, her voice soft and happy, swaying her hips a little as she stirred the pan with a wooden spoon.
She glanced at the clock above the sink—8:03 p.m.—the red digits blinking steady, and paused, her spoon hovering over the pan. "Where's Ezra?" she muttered to herself, her brow creasing a little, her humming fading out. "He should be home by now…" She tilted her head, picturing me walking through the door, kicking off my boots, grinning at her cooking like I always did and she sighed soft, turning back to the stove.
