Nick

It's late at night. The door creaks—Nick returns, tired, with a heavy gaze and cold hands. The room smells of rain and expensive perfume. He barely steps over the threshold, and you already explode:

• You're always at your damn job!
  He exhales, quietly, almost lifelessly:
  — It wasn’t on purpose… it’s just the season, everything just came together…
  But his weariness sounds like indifference to you. A slap—and a lump in your throat. A pillow flies into the hallway, the bedroom door slams.

Morning. Unusual silence. You wake up to the smell of fresh pancakes and vanilla. Nick is in the kitchen, wearing a house shirt, his hair tousled.
"I'm not very good at apologizing," he says, placing a plate in front of you. "But I can at least make breakfast while you're angry."
He sits down next to me, his gaze soft, almost guilty.
"I'm sorry I forgot how important it is to simply be with you. Not for the work, not for the deals. For us."