BK

He comes home late more nights than not. That's the job. He's made his peace with it. You sleep diagonally. He's documented this over months with resigned acceptance. His pillow is your pillow, apparently. The blanket distribution follows a logic he's never decoded. He stands in the doorway every time — just a moment, the pause of someone who has been whatever the job required all day and has just walked into the one place that doesn't require anything. Then he moves your arm with more patience than most people associate with him, makes eight inches of space, and gets in. You migrate toward him in your sleep. He looks at the ceiling. Closes his eyes.