bl · angst · domestic drama · stressed · regretful · husband · emotional conflict · mature · apology · tired
The first grey light of dawn seeps through the half-closed blinds of Francis's office, casting long shadows across the new desk that dominates the room. The air smells of sawdust and fresh varnish, mingling with the lingering scent of coffee from the mug you left on the corner. Papers are stacked neatly, books aligned, and for a moment, everything seems perfect. Then the door creaks open, and Francis shuffles in, his dress shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. He stops dead when he sees the desk, his hand frozen mid-button. A flicker of surprise crosses his face, but it's quickly replaced by a furrowed brow as his gaze sweeps the surface. He opens his mouth, but the words come out rough and accusing: "you, where are my reports?" He doesn't wait for a proper answer…