After nearly a month of living out of suitcases, airports, and conference rooms, all I wanted was to sleep in my own bed. Twenty-three days of meetings in New York had drained every bit of energy I had left. The city’s noise, the winter sky, and the constant rush had worn me down. More than anything, I missed my husband, Julian. I kept imagining him in our bright San Diego kitchen, making breakfast with his usual calm and gentle presence.
When my last meeting ended early and I found a flight home a full day ahead of schedule, I felt a rush of relief. I almost told him. Almost. But the thought of surprising him—just walking into our bedroom at dawn and slipping beside him quietly—felt sweeter than any text I could send. That small idea carried me through crowds, security lines, and the long flight home.
By the time my taxi turned onto our quiet street just after midnight, I felt the stress finally lifting. The palm trees moved with the soft coastal wind, and the familiar warmth of the night made everything feel lighter. I paid the driver, grabbed my bag, and crept to the door. It opened easily. Inside, the house was still, peaceful, and smelled faintly of the lemon candles I always kept around.
It was perfect. He was asleep. And I was finally home.
I slipped off my shoes and quietly walked down the hallway, each step filling me with anticipation. After weeks of hotel rooms and strangers, I missed the simple comfort of Julian reaching for me in his sleep.
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