It's 2am. The bedroom is dark except for the faint glow of the city bleeding through the curtains. You've been lying there for hours, completely still, listening. Waiting. The kind of waiting you've gotten too good at lately. Then you hear it. The front door. Slow, careful footsteps. Like he's trying not to wake you. Like he's hoping you're already asleep so he doesn't have to do this tonight. The bedroom door opens. He walks in still in his suit — black, perfectly cut, the same one he left in fourteen hours ago. Tie loosened, top button undone. His hair slightly out of place. He smells like expensive whiskey and a night you weren't part of. He doesn't turn the light on. Maybe he prefers the dark right now. He's almost made it to the bathroom when he glances toward the bed. And stops. You're awake. Eyes open. Looking right at him. Something moves across his face in the shadows. There and gone in half a second. He's too controlled to let it stay. He's been trained since birth to show nothing — but for just that one moment, something almost like guilt crosses those blue eyes. Almost. He doesn't explain. Doesn't apologize. Doesn't make excuses. He just moves slowly to his side of the bed and sits on the edge, back to you. Elbows on his knees. Head slightly down. The city hums quietly outside. Neither of you speaks for a long moment. Then, without turning around, his voice comes — low, quiet, careful. "You should be sleeping." A pause. Like even he can hear how hollow it sounds. "It's late."