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He’s already home when you get there, a lo-fi jazz song from Spotify playing as you duck in. He only plays that kind of music when he’s cooking and a moment’s pause fills your nostrils with the telltale scents of spice to confirm the suspicion: Andy’s making dinner.
You try to do that once or twice a week when your busy schedules – law school for you, his first firm gig post graduation for him – allow you to, and usually, coming home to it fills your chest with something warm.
Today, though, the smell just makes you nauseous; reminds you that, despite the late hour, you haven’t really had time to get more than a few bites of a decent meal. That reminds you of the day’s drain and your shoulders sink as you kick off your boots and shrug off your snowy coat.
The sound of you in the closet catches his attention in the kitchen, and Andy rounds the corner with a half-grin to greet you. “Hey baby,” he hums, wiping his hands down on a kitchen towel. “You just get in?”
You just nod, humming half-distracted as you get everything in the closet in order. You don’t think you’re showing much, but the lack of eye contact alone is enough to tip him off: you’re usually locked in whenever anyone talks to you. Still, he waits, patient, for you to have the space to do that ritual; get your head right before he presses. Then, warm hands find your hips under the wool of your coziest sweater, pulling you in close for a hug. The embrace is simple, but pointed - he squeezes you in a way that lets you know that he knows and the tenderness of his wordless care makes your heart tighten.
God, you love this man.
You don’t have much energy - emotional or otherwise - to hug him back, but it doesn’t stop you from clinging to him, fingers slipping up his sweater to cling to the shirt underneath and feel his grounding warmth.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” he hums against your hair, “but I want you to go take some time first. Go shower, and I’ll bring you something warm. Then we’ll eat.”
You look up at him wordlessly, gratitude shining in tears along your waterline, and Andy smiles in return, leaning down to kiss you hard, but not forcefully, before he lets you go in the direction of your bedroom.
You dread most routines when you feel like this, but time in the shower isn’t one of them. The warm water over your body and hair feels as much like coming home as one of Andy’s hugs, and you spend more time than you intend in there, fingers scrubbing your scalp and skin to wash the day away. Every now and then, you can hear Andy pop in; once to set a mug in arm’s reach so you can pull it onto the shower’s ledge, another time to leave you fresh towels and your PJs. He doesn’t say much or even ask how you are, not wanting to rush you; but the cool air from outside reminds you that he’s only a call away, and is waiting for you to be ready.
That feeling - that readiness - doesn’t come for a bit longer; forty-five minutes or so, in fact, when you emerge from the shower, not better, but getting there. Your head doesn’t feel nearly as heavy and the urge to cry is tapered. Slipping into your new set of clothes helps the feeling, the cotton warm to the touch in a way that makes you beam: he’d thrown them in the dryer to get them toasty.
Andy has a knack for things like that - it’d been shocking when you first started dating as not many prospective lawyers from the East Coast have a heart that big. But, now, it’s clockwork; as certain as the sun in the sky, his love is a safety net you know you can come back to when everything else rages out of your control.
As if on cue, he appears in the doorway, kitchen towel over one shoulder as he smiles at you. “Any better,” he asks softly, leaning his weight against the doorjamb to watch you.
“A little,” you offer with a small smile, winding a towel around your shoulders to catch the water from your hair. With your curls washed through, you need to take some time to work product in - one of the best and most calming parts of the routine. But, it won’t be quick, especially right now, and you relent with eyes shifting towards Andy thoughtfully. “You don’t have to wait for me on dinner, you know… this’ll take a bit.”
His nose scrunches up as if in disgust; he can’t believe you’d even suggest it. “Don’t worry about that - ‘ve been stealing a few bites while I cook. I’ll survive.” He presses off the doorframe to close the distance, hands moving up to squeeze your shoulders from behind once he’s close enough. “What’s more important is that you eat, sweetheart — let me help so we can get you settled in with a plate, hm?”
The offer would make you nervous with anyone else; but Andy, diligent as ever, had gotten into a habit of watching you with your hair, picking up on the things that you do to treat it, style it, wash it. He’s only helped a few times before, but it’s always gone well, and tonight, you could use the extra love. The fingers in your scalp, soothing and focused. The kisses to the back of your neck every time he finishes a section. The soft rumble in his chest, inches from your back, when he hums to whatever song you’ve played to set the tone. For the second time that night, you feel your heart about to burst, and have to push down a rise of tears from the surge of love and emotion.
“I’d really like that.”