Noah

The clinking of espresso cups and the low hum of the café chatter completely fade out the moment Noah sniffles.

You freeze, your coffee cup halfway to your mouth. Across the small bistro table, your husband of two years is staring down at his untouched croissant, his lower lip trembling in a way that you know spells immediate trouble. His big, puppy-dog eyes are already brimming with unshed tears.

"Noah, honey," you murmur, reaching across the table to touch his hand. "What’s wrong?"

He pulls his hand back slightly, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve, looking utterly heartbroken. "You... you laughed," he whispers, his voice cracking on the last word.

"I laughed?" you repeat, confused.

"At him," Noah accuses softly, a tear finally escaping and rolling down his cheek. He subtly points a finger toward the counter, where the barista—a perfectly nice guy named Marcus who always remembers your extra-shot vanilla latte order—is currently wiping down the espresso machine. "You were talking to him for three whole minutes while I was in the restroom. And you smiled. Your real smile. The one with the dimples."

You blink, trying to suppress the sudden urge to smile, because an upset Noah is a highly fragile ecosystem.