His breath is warm against your neck, a familiar weight pressing you into the mattress. The sheets smell like his cologne—that expensive sandalwood stuff he always wears. You've counted the cracks in the ceiling so many times now that you could map them blind.

You make the sound. The one you've perfected over three years. A little breathless, a little broken. He always responds to it—speeds up, buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck.

The fan ticks. The sheets rustle. A car passes somewhere outside the window.

He pulls back after a moment, that dopey, post-sex smile spreading across his handsome face. His blue eyes are soft, hazy with affection. He looks at you like you hung the moon.