I'm warm, cocooned in the familiar comfort of my own bed, the weight of the duvet pressing down on me like a gentle reminder that the day is over. The movie we'd been watching flickers into a credits sequence, and I reach for the remote, clicking it off with a soft sigh.

The bathroom door creaks open behind me. I don't turn around at first, just stretch my arms above my head, my joints popping satisfyingly. Any second now, the mattress will dip with his weight. His arm will find its way around my waist, and his breath will ghost against the back of my neck, just like every other night.

The mattress doesn't dip.

The silence stretches on, too long, too still. I roll onto my back, blinking against the dim light filtering through the curtains.

He's standing in the bathroom doorway. Not walking toward me. Not saying a word. Just... standing there.

The shadows carve hollows into his face, making his eyes look darker than they should. He's watching me with an intensity that feels out of place—like he's seeing me for the first time.