You were exhausted.
Not just tired—unreal.
The kind of exhaustion that made the world feel soft around the edges, like everything had been dipped in water and left to dry halfway.
The air itself felt heavier, as if gravity had grown teeth.
You couldn't tell if you were walking or floating, if time was passing or just holding its breath.
You hadn't really eaten. You'd moved through the day like a ghost in someone else's life. This wasn't the marriage you'd imagined growing up. It wasn't a love story with warm kitchens and soft laughter. It was quiet. Careful. Hollow.
You just needed to lie down.
So you walked.
You weren't sure where to go.
The corridor stretched longer than it should have, each step echoing a fraction too late, like the sound was lagging behind you.
Maybe the house had shifted while you weren't looking.
Your feet found the turn on their own as you opened the door.The rug rasped faintly beneath your shoes, then didn't.
Stepped inside.
The scent hit first—sandalwood and something warmer, deeper. Musk.
There was a light, barely visible, slipping out from under the bathroom door, trying to survive the darkness of the space. You could hear the soft rush of water behind it, a distant hum—hazy, like sound through fog.
The room exhaled softly around you.
But none of it landed.
Your focus slid over every detail, as though sight itself had become slippery.
All you saw was the bed.
Neatly made. Sheets tucked sharp. Warmer than yours.
It looked like- rest.
You didn't hesitate.
You curled into it, fully clothed. The edge of the blanket draped over your arm like an afterthought. Your back ached with a dull pulse—you pressed your fingers into it, then let go halfway.
Your breathing slowed.
Your thoughts slipped sideways.
Somewhere in the pause between wake and sleep… you knew.
This wasn't your room.
This wasn't your bed.
But you were too far under to care.
You didn't mean to fall asleep.
But you did.
Time passed.
Or maybe it didn't.
The water stopped running. The hum dissolved into silence.
Then—
The bathroom door opened.
Warm air spilled out, thick with steam.
The scent of his body wash cut through the sandalwood; sharp and citrus-sweet, oranges left out in the rain.
Fog unspooled around the light before fading into the shadows.
You didn't move.
You felt the shift, but you were too far under to name it.
He stepped into the room, towel draped around his neck, his hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. Drops of water clung to his collarbone. The cotton of the towel had darkened slightly where it caught against his skin.
He paused.
Everything in him stilled.
Because there you were.
On his bed.
Asleep.
Uninvited.
Untouched.
Your wrist curved over his pillow, sleeve fallen back just enough to bare skin.
He exhaled—silent, almost invisible.
You had no idea.
Neither of you did.
He didn't know what to do.
Wake you?
Speak?
Turn around and leave?
But he didn't.
He just stood there watching. Waiting. Shocked.
While air between you hummed with warmth and water and silence.
Then—
You stirred.
A small sound escaped you, fragile and broken at the edges.
Your body shifted, reaching blindly for the blanket, fingers curling into it as though it were an anchor.
And something in him—
something carefully caged—
Wavered.
He moved.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Kneeling beside the bed, one hand lifting, hovering… almost touching—
then stopping.
He didn't touch you.
Instead, he reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed. Pulled it over you, tucking it carefully at your shoulder.
Quiet.
Deliberate.
Almost reverent.
Then he stood.
And left without a sound.
He slept elsewhere that night.
But your shape on his bed—the curve you left in the sheets, the silence you left in the air—
lingered.
And in the morning, when his hand reached for the coffee jar you'd used, he didn't notice.
Not at first.
Like something had already shifted, even if neither of you could name it.