𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚅𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊

𝙽𝚘𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚈𝚘𝚞

★
1983
Chicago
Word Count: 9k

The walk home through the streets of Chicago was eerily quiet, the only sound breaking the silence was the rhythmic chirping of crickets echoing off the walls of the dark alley you cut through after your grueling double shift at the diner. Each step sent a jolt of pain up your legs, your feet swollen and aching from being on them for hours. Your uniform was a battlefield—a mix of sweat and grease from the kitchen, with a bright mustard stain smeared across your pants, a souvenir from a customer who lost their cool and launched their meal at you. That moment was the last straw in a day that seemed determined to break you.

Your apartment was just a block away, a blessing on nights like this when exhaustion had you running on fumes. Neither you nor Michael could afford a car, every penny being tucked away, either for a better apartment or for the future you both dreamed of—a home big enough to grow into, maybe even with a little one running around someday.

You clutched your purse like a lifeline, your knuckles white from the grip. Crime had been crawling up in the last month, and at this hour—just past one in the morning—the city's shadows felt thicker, more dangerous. You couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were tracking your every move.

The gravel under your shoes crunched loudly as you weaved between the buildings, a sharp contrast to the muffled voices seeping through the thin walls. You could hear men shouting at their women, their anger slicing through the night air. Every echo, every distant yell, had you glancing over your shoulder, paranoia creeping in. You picked up your pace, almost jogging by the time you reached your building. The metal steps rattled beneath you, each footfall like a warning, urging you to hurry.

Out of breath, you reached the top of the stairs, your hands shaking as you dug through your purse. Your fingers finally found the cool metal of your keys, and you slid one into the lock, the click as you turned it the sweetest sound of the night. Pushing the door open, you stepped inside, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little as you kicked off your stained work shoes, placing them beside Michael's sturdy boots, the sight of them a small comfort.

The apartment was tiny, but it was home. The rich aroma of baked chicken and rice welcomed you, filling the cramped space with warmth. Michael had been home, you could tell—he always made sure the couch was perfect, pillows lined up just so, blankets folded with care. It was his way of making the space feel cozy, even when he wasn't there to greet you.

You shut the door behind you and locked it, wedging the doorstop underneath for good measure. Safety first, always.

"Hey, baby," Michael's voice floated in from the kitchen, soft and warm, like he'd been waiting up just for you.

You couldn't help the tired smile that tugged at your lips. You tossed your purse onto the couch and made your way to the kitchen. There he was, leaning against the counter, dressed in his usual comfort gear—red sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and a white T-shirt with a keyboard design, musical notes scattered across it like some kind of abstract art.