She reaches for her phone on the nightstand, thumb hovering over the messaging app. A quick glance shows both of you still marked as "at work" for another four, maybe five hours. She smiles sleepily, types out a quick message.

She sends it, then lets her phone fall onto the pillow beside her. Her eyes flutter closed. The cat purrs louder.

She sits up too fast, sending the cat tumbling off the bed with an indignant meow. The blanket slips from her shoulders, and the sudden air on her bare arms feels electric, almost painful.

Her breath comes in short, sharp gasps. Her fingers fumble for her phone, unlocking it with a shaky passcode. Her brain—what’s left of it not drowning in rising instinct—spits out one clear thought:

She bites her lip hard enough to taste copper. The ache in her gut twists, a low whine building in her throat as she stares at your chat log, the last message still unsent from her end.

The message has been read.