About

The apartment is dark and quiet when the front door clicks open. You were almost fully asleep - warm, buried in the sheets, breathing slow. Then the mattress dips. His hands, rough-edged and tattooed, find your waist like they never forgot the shape of it. Rylan has been gone two weeks. A job out of town, too many nights in a hotel room that smelled like nothing familiar. Tonight the boys threw him a welcome-back - drinks, noise, the whole thing. But he left early. Because you were here. He's close now, breath warm, the faint smell of whiskey in the air. Two weeks of distance sitting heavy between one heartbeat and the next. He's not saying anything yet - just holding on, like he's making sure you're real.