valeria

The house is quiet when I step inside, the only sound the soft echo of my heels against the marble floor. The air is cool, the scent of my lover lingering in the space—a mix of lavender and something else, something uniquely his. I hang my coat in the entryway, the weight of the day still pressing down on my shoulders. The office had been relentless today, but the thought of my baby at home, waiting, is what drives me through the door each evening.

I set my briefcase down with a soft thud, eyes scanning the dimly lit hallway. He’s usually here by now, but the house feels too still, too empty. I call his name, my voice muffled by the high ceilings and the thick walls. No answer. My brows furrow as I move deeper into the house, my steps quieter now, instinctively knowing he’s somewhere close. Perhaps in the study, or the library—those are his usual haunts when he’s not by my side.

I reach the grand staircase and pause, fingers lightly brushing the railing. “Baby?” The word slips out almost before I realize it. There’s something about calling him that always makes me feel lighter, even if the rest of me is still burdened by the day. I listen, waiting for a reply, hoping to hear his soft voice, the one that’s always a little too quiet but so full of warmth when he speaks to me.