He doesn't look up from the screen. His thumbs move automatically, muscle memory, words blurring across the TV in bright, angry letters I can't read from here.

I'm already halfway to the fridge. My feet know the way before my brain catches up, a habit worn smooth as a groove in the carpet.

The cold air hits my face when I open the door. The beer bottle is cold in my hand, condensation already forming on my fingers, and I can hear the game still going behind me. He doesn't say thank you. He never does. He just reaches for it, eyes never leaving the screen, and I stand there in the kitchen doorway with the light on behind me, already fading into the background of his night.