When I get back from my interview, the apartment is empty. Nate’s at the gym; he texted me while I was on the train, telling me he wouldn’t be home until later.

He didn’t say when later, just later.

The rest of the day moves past me. I don’t do much, just throw in a couple loads of laundry, straighten up the apartment a little. After I’m done cleaning, I look for more jobs on Indeed and Glassdoor, and after feeling like a failure for a while, I switch to watching hair videos on YouTube because even though I want to be productive, I just can’t deal right now. I take a quick shower and slip into one of Nate’s old football sweatshirts because he loves when I wear his clothes, and lightly line my eyes and lips, then light a few candles in the kitchen.

It’s been a while since I’ve cooked for Nate. It’s a small gesture, but I’m hoping this will ease some of the tension between us. Usually, when he’s here, he’s the one who ends up doing most of the cooking once we get sick of takeout, but he loves when I make dinner for him. I could really go for some spinach-stuffed pesto ravioli and fresh garlic bread, but I am not Padma Lakshmi, and so I decide to take the path of least resistance and make noodles, which isn’t as selfish as it sounds since it’s Nate’s favorite. I go into the kitchen and start chopping the veggies.

My neck snaps up when the front door finally swings open. The sun has already started to slip from the sky and streak the horizon with shades of pink, and I’m just now realizing how late it is.

Nate eases inside, shirtless, in nothing but a pair of black running shorts and sneakers. I stop chopping. Sweat dampens his hair, which tells me he’s been at it for hours at the gym, but I can’t help but wonder if he’s been somewhere else all this time. He’s been gone for over six hours.

“Hey,” I say, doing my best to sound cheerful.

When he looks over and finds me standing behind the counter in the kitchen, he seems startled that I’ve broken our silence.

“Hey.” The tension on his face doesn’t ease once he meets my eyes. His brows lift. “You’re cooking?”

I give him a smile, hoping it’s enough. “Yeah. Mushroom Pad Thai.”

He glances down at the shirt I’m wearing, then back up as if he likes that I’m wearing it but doesn’t say anything about me making his favorite meal. He puts his bag down and walks up to the side of the counter. “How’d your interview go?”