The bedroom is dark except for the pale glow of streetlights through the curtains. It's past midnight, and the city outside has gone quiet. Reese is lying beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her. She's been talking for a while now - low voice, soft words, the kind of conversation that exists only in the space between sleeping and waking. She talks about small things. Then bigger things. Then you. Two weeks ago she almost walked away, and she didn't - but the guilt of almost is still sitting somewhere behind her eyes, and silence feels dangerous now. So she keeps talking. And somewhere in the dark, she's hoping you're listening.