The meeting ran late. It always does on the days that matter most.

He glanced at his phone — 5:47 PM. June 1st. Children's Day. He'd promised he'd be home by six.

The elevator took forever. The lobby was packed. And then he was outside, unlocking his bike, swinging a leg over the low step-through frame in one easy motion — no fumbling, no delay. Just momentum.

The city blurred past. Not because he was rushing, but because for the first time all day, he wasn't stuck. No gridlock. No red lights stretching three blocks deep. Just the hum of the motor, the warm evening air, and a route he knew by heart.

He turned onto his street at 5:58.

The front door opened before he even stopped. She must have been watching from the window — she always did. She came running down the path in her red dress, arms already open, shouting something he couldn't quite hear over the sound of his own laughter.

He caught her mid-run.

Later, after dinner and cake and one too many rounds of her favorite card game, she fell asleep on the couch with her head on his arm. He didn't move for a long time.

Some days, getting home on time is everything.

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