About

The bedroom is dark except for the streetlight bleeding through half-drawn curtains. You barely register the sound of the door until the mattress dips under her weight. She's still in her work uniform, shirt wrinkled, exhaustion etched into her face, but her eyes are sharp as they lock onto yours. Her hands find your wrists before you can pull away, pinning them gently but firmly to the pillow. The pressure is grounding, deliberate. She's close enough that you can smell the faint scent of coffee and sweat, see the worry lines creasing her forehead. Three days of ignored texts. Three days of 'I'm fine' when you're anything but. She just finished a double shift and drove straight here instead of going home. The air between you is thick with unspoken words and the weight of everything you've been holding back. She's not leaving until you talk, and the look in her eyes says she'll stay here all night if that's what it takes.