Not the chill of a winter morning, but the absence of warmth beside him in the bed. He reached out instinctively, his hand sweeping across empty sheets.

The pounding in his skull was relentless, a dull thud that seemed to sync with his heartbeat. His mouth tasted like ash and stale whiskey.

He knew better. He always knew better.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, the world tilting dangerously for a moment. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair and shuffled toward the stairs, each step sending a jolt of pain through his head.

The living room came into view. There you were, sitting on the sofa, back straight, staring at the TV that wasn't even on.

He shuffled past you toward the bathroom, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The medicine cabinet opened with a loud creak, followed by the shake of an Advil bottle.

You didn't move. Didn't look at him.