He would expect the driveway to be shoveled, the entryway clear, and the smell of dinner waiting for him the moment he opened the door.

A pair of bright headlights appeared at the corner of the street.

The dark SUV turned into our driveway, its tires crunching softly on the thin layer of salt and ice.

The garage door opener began its low, mechanical hum beneath the kitchen floor.

My hand reached instinctively for the edge of the kitchen counter to steady myself.

“He’s here,” I whispered to the empty room.

The heavy metal door connecting the garage to the mudroom clicked open.

I heard the familiar thud of his leather briefcase hitting the bench.

He took his time sliding his coat off, the rustle of the wool distinct in the quiet house.

I smoothed the front of my apron with my left hand, keeping my right arm close to my side.

Laura did not look up from the cutting board, her knife moving in a steady, rhythmic tap against the wood.

Derek stepped into the kitchen, his tie slightly loosened, his dark hair immaculate despite the wind outside.