The house is still.
No wind. No sound. Just the ticking of the old clock in the hallway.
You jolt awake—sheets tangled, heart racing, mouth dry. A dream. Maybe not even a dream. Just… unrest. Something heavy that sat on your chest until you couldn't breathe.
You don't cry.
You just can't stay in bed.
You throw on a robe, bare feet brushing against the floor as you make your way to the kitchen in the dark. You don't bother turning on the lights. You know the way.
The fridge hums softly as you open it.
Cold light spills across the room as you take out a glass, pour some water.
Then pause.
Lean against the counter.
Sip.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The water glass rests half-full on the kitchen counter.
You leave the fridge light behind and walk softly, barefoot, down the hall. Past closed doors. Past him. Past your bedroom. Past everything.
The library sits tucked at the end of the corridor like a forgotten memory—warm with wood and dust, full of stories older than this house and quieter than your thoughts.
You open the door gently. It creaks, just a little.
It smells like paper and ink and something comforting. Something constant.
You don't bother turning on the overhead lights.
You switch on the lamp beside the armchair near the window. A soft yellow pool of light floods the corner.
It feels safe here.
It always has.
You curl up in the armchair, pull the soft throw from its back, and sit—knees drawn to your chest, spine curved like a comma. Not ready to sleep. Not ready to read.
Just be.
Your eyes flick to the shelves. His books. Lined with care.
You hadn't meant to make a sound. But maybe you did. Maybe the creak of the floorboard or the soft click of the door carried farther than you thought.
Because you hear it—a footstep in the hallway.
And then—
The door opens.
He stands there, framed by the dim light spilling from behind him. Shirt clinging loosely to his frame, hair a little tousled from sleep. There's still a quietness about him, but something in his eyes is sharper.
"I thought I heard something," he says, voice low.
You shift in your seat, startled—embarrassed.
"I'm sorry," you murmur. "I didn't mean to wake you."
He doesn't move closer.
Doesn't leave either.
A pause.
Then—
"Are you alright?"
That question.
So simple. So direct.
And yet it lands somewhere deep inside you, where you'd been holding things in place for days.
You nod—too quickly.
"Yeah. Just… couldn't sleep."
His gaze lingers on you a moment longer. He doesn't press.
He doesn't ask what the dream was. Or why your shoulders are tight, your eyes red-rimmed.
He just… looks.
And finally says:
"Alright."
But he doesn't leave.
Instead, he steps inside. Quietly closes the door behind him. Not all the way—just enough that it hushes the rest of the world.
He doesn't ask to sit.
But his eyes flick toward the second chair across from you.
You gesture slightly toward it—subtle, nearly imperceptible.
Permission granted.
He lowers himself into it with a low breath. Hands on his knees. Still watching you. Not intensely. Just… present.
And for a moment, that's all there is.
Two people.
One room.
A long, breathless silence.
Then you say, not looking directly at him:
"This was your mother's favorite room, wasn't it?"
His eyes lift to you—quietly surprised.
"Yes."
You nod, your gaze fixed on the golden lamp light dancing on the spines of the books.
"Feels like it remembers her."
A long pause.
Then, softer than you've ever heard from him:
"So do I."
And somehow, you both go still again. But not because there's nothing to say.
Because something unspoken has already passed between you.
The fabric of your nightgown clings lightly to your skin, delicate under the soft library light. You hadn't planned to be seen like this—bare arms, the faintest lace at the neckline, your knees tucked beneath the blanket. But now, with him here, sitting only a few feet away, you're aware of every fold, every exposed inch.
He says nothing. But you see his jaw shift when his eyes flick, just once, to the hem riding up your thigh.
Quickly, he looks away.
His voice is even.
"You might like this one."
He passes the book to you—his fingers grazing yours just barely. That light contact crackles louder than any words. He doesn't react. Neither do you.
Not visibly.
You glance down at the book. Simple cover. Plain title.
"Short stories?" you ask.
He nods, but his gaze is not on the book.
It's on the blanket.
Then your bare foot, curled slightly against the upholstery.
Then back to the shelves—anywhere but you.
"Nothing dramatic. Just… moments. Small ones."
You flip a few pages, pretending to read. You can feel his presence like a static hum.
You ask, without looking up:
"Did you come here often? Before we got married?"
He's quiet a second longer than necessary.
"Sometimes."
You nod. The blanket slips slightly off your shoulder.
He notices.
Of course he does.
But again—nothing said.
He moves to the side table and sets down a thicker blanket. Not over you. Just within reach. It says: If you're cold, but I'm not going to assume you are.
You look up at him, just briefly.
And for the first time in days, his gaze holds. No retreat. Just that deep, unreadable flicker behind his eyes.
It lingers.
Too long.
Then he clears his throat. Shifts his weight.
"You should try the third story. It's about a woman who befriends a monkey.."
You huff a quiet breath—almost a laugh. Almost.
He starts to walk away, his steps slow.
And just before he reaches the door—
Just before he vanishes into the dark again—
He stops.
His hand on the doorframe, back still to you.
"…You look nice tonight."
It's quiet. Almost lost in the wood-paneled hush.
Then he disappears down the hall.
And your heart stirs like the pages of the book you haven't started reading yet.