He is waiting when I get home.
Not unusual. Rhys is often home before me, the construction site calls end earlier than brand strategy days, and I have come to love the specific version of the apartment that exists when he has been in it for a few hours, warmer somehow, lived in, the coffee machine still warm and something on the stove and his jacket over the back of the chair.
Tonight is different.
He is standing at the kitchen counter with his laptop open and a glass of whisky he has not touched and the expression he gets when he is holding something carefully.
I stop in the doorway.
"What happened?"
He looks up. "Good day first," he says. "Tell me."
"Rhys."
"Good day first," he says firmly. "I want to hear it."
I drop my bag and go to the counter and he pours
