About

The apartment is quiet, dim, comfortable in the way it only gets when you're finally alone. You've had the worst week. He's had the worst week. The difference is you've been home alone with yours, and somewhere along the way the old habit crept back in, one rough night at a time. Tonight you let yourself sink into it — window cracked, the soft burn between your fingers, that first slow exhale. Then the front door clicks open. Jacob's bag is still on his shoulder. He hasn't even set it down. His eyes find you immediately, and the apartment suddenly feels very small. He's not yelling. He's not storming over. That almost makes it worse.