Natalie's POV
The text arrived at 3:14 that afternoon.
Daniel: Home early. I'm cooking.
I read it three times at my desk. Daniel had apologized to me before, with jewelry, with flowers delivered to the office where everyone could see the bouquet, which had always felt less like an apology than a press release. He had never once apologized with a pot on a stove.
I typed Okay, deleted it, typed What time? and deleted that too. In the end I left the message unanswered and turned my phone face-down.
The apartment smelled of butter and baked cheese when I opened the door.
For a second I thought I had walked into the wrong home. Then I saw Daniel in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, lifting a dish out of the oven. Macaroni and cheese, the baked kind with the breadcrumbs, t
