She breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped into what she thought of as the belly of the house. It was clean, the spills from last night mopped and cleared away—not a speck of her Pyrex on the floor. She felt more positive than she had even five seconds ago. Nigel was a good man; he’d cleaned everything up so she wouldn’t have to, even though she’d been the one to pick the fight.

As she closed the door quietly behind her, Nigel stood with his back to her, examining the contents of the fridge. Winnie took a moment to admire him; he hadn’t heard her come in on account of the music he was playing, “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. She didn’t want to startle him, so she waited, her hip leaning against the lip of the counter. It felt like such a strange thing to do, being that they’d been married for over a decade, but sometimes Winnie had no clue how to act around her husband.

For the most part, Nigel was charming, funny, easy to talk to—check, check, check. The one thing people never seemed to pick up on was the fact that he refused to talk about himself. If you asked him a question, he’d deflect, lead the conversation back to you. For this reason, Winnie felt like she couldn’t really know her husband; he simply didn’t want to be known. She was content to be part of him, however shallow that made her.

When he turned around, she had her best smile ready.

Nigel jumped. “Je—sh—you scared me.”

“Sorry. I was actually trying not to.”

Nigel didn’t smile back; he was distracted. Winnie cocked her head, trying to read his face. He was wearing his feelings tonight. Nigel became still when he was troubled—his face, his body, everything frozen in sagging, bent defeat.

She skipped over, wrapping her arms around him. He smelled so good, and not because of cologne or aftershave—Nigel smelled good. When they’d first started dating, he’d accepted her enthusiastic affection with the amusement an owner would have for a new puppy. And Winnie had loved being Nigel’s new puppy; the joy her personality seemed to bring him gave Winnie’s every day meaning. He’d given her the nickname Bear, a Winnie-the-Pooh joke.

But then the bad thing had happened.

After that, it was as if the rosy illumination with which he viewed her had been replaced with harsh, supermarket lighting. She wasn’t Bear anymore. Now she was just plain old Winnie. But it wasn’t like she still had hearts in her eyes every time she looked at him, either. They were settled into their arrangement, whatever that was, and though Winnie loved her husband very much, she saw him through human eyes now.