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The key turns in the lock, slowly. Not like she’s afraid of making noise. More like she no longer has the energy. No momentum left. No drive.
She pushes the door open with her elbow, steps inside without looking around. Closes it behind her. Barely. No need to slam. There’s nothing here that needs to be kept away. Just space. Quiet. Warmth.
Then, a sound.
Claws clicking a little too loud on the floorboards.
Kojo comes rushing from the back of the hallway, bumps into the entryway rug, lets out a single bark—soft, caught in his throat. He nearly slips turning the corner. Stops right against her legs.
She wasn’t expecting him. But she smiles. Automatically.
He doesn’t jump. Doesn’t bark again. He presses his head to her knee, like he never moved from that spot. Like he’d just… been waiting.
She places her hand on him. Not for long. Just a soft pass of her fingers between his ears. He wags his tail once, then quiets again.
She drops her keys. Lets her shoes fall.
Not like a ritual. More like giving up. Her shoulders roll forward.
Her bag bumps softly against the wall. And she just stands there. One second. Two.
Breath slightly short. Jaw tight. Eyes closed without even noticing.
Kojo doesn’t move anymore. He waits. He understands.
She’s not even sure if she’s hungry. Or cold. All she knows is that she’s done. And that she’s here.
Finally.
The walls feel familiar. The floor creaks the way she likes. The darkness isn’t really dark. It’s soft. Lived in. And at the end of the hallway, a glow.
Thin. Golden. Not bright enough to bother her. Just enough to say, “I’m here.”
He didn’t turn off the light.
Kojo follows her. Not quickly. Not loudly. He keeps his distance, like he senses this moment belongs only to her.
She doesn’t undress. Not yet. She moves through the house. Doesn’t really pull her sweatshirt, just touches the hem. Sleeves stuck up at her elbows. Fatigue pressed to her skin, heavy like heat.
She hits the bedroom door. Opens it.
Her chest tightens. Sharp. Out of nowhere.
Lying on his stomach, shirtless. One shoulder uncovered. The sheet pulled low, halfway down his back. One leg stretched out, the other bent, slanting across the mattress. One hand left outside the pillow. The other tucked underneath.
He’s sleeping.
For real.
Not half-asleep. Not faking. He sleeps deeply. Face turned the other way. Mouth slightly open against the fabric. Muscles soft. Breathing long. Slow. Steady.
She looks at him. For a long time.
Maybe longer than she should.
She hadn’t planned to wake him. But she knows she will. She can’t help it. She needs him. Now. Right here.
So she moves slowly. Quietly.
She slips off her pants. Lets the fabric fall to the floor. Bends down to remove her sweatshirt. Drops it at the foot of the bed, balled up. Slides under the covers without a sound.
Kojo lies down at the edge of the rug, right beside them. He curls up. Closes his eyes. Doesn’t make a sound.
She eases in closer. Her body brushes his skin. Just barely. But it’s enough.
And that’s when it shifts.
He doesn’t wake all at once. His brow creases slightly. His head moves just a little. His breath catches.
Then his muscles tense, slowly. His hand reaches out into the space between them, blindly.
She’s already there. So he finds her.
His palm finds her hip. He moves in closer. His chest presses gently against her back. His face nestles into the curve of her neck.
And there—only then—he opens his eyes.
Not fully. Not yet. Just a blink. A breath.
His voice is rough. Coated with sleep.
“You cold?”
She barely nods. The smallest movement. But he feels it. He feels everything.
She tucks her legs against his. Slides a hand along his forearm. Threads her fingers between his.
He closes his hand around hers. And doesn’t let go.
He says nothing else. Neither does she.
But he’s awake. For her. Now.
And that’s enough.
He’s tired too. Not in the same way. But you can feel it. In the way he holds her, without pressure. Like he just wants her to stay. Like this. Right here. Against him.
She feels it.
They stay like that. For a while. Maybe twenty minutes. Maybe an hour.
Sometimes, he slides his hand a little higher on her stomach. Sometimes, she squeezes his fingers a bit tighter. But that’s all. No words. No dramatics. No need.
It’s just another night.
Or it should be. It’s a night where she comes home,
where he’s truly asleep, where she wakes him without meaning to, where he joins her without a question, where she says nothing, and neither does he.
But everything is there. Everything is said.
And in the silence of the bed, in the curve of her back, in the hand resting exactly where it should be,
in the rhythm of their breathing, in the sheet sliding softly across their tangled legs,
there is more love than in all the words they could’ve spoken.
She hasn’t said a word in a while.
Her hand, still nestled in his, isn’t searching for anything anymore.
She’s still breathing—just slower now. Deeper. Her back relaxes into his chest. Her forehead touches the pillow.
Her neck gives in. She sinks, slowly, inch by inch, like her body is finally remembering it’s allowed to let go.
He doesn’t move.
He stays there, his cheek resting against her temple, his breath steady in her hair.
He holds her without holding tight. Just present. Just enough.
He feels the moment her legs go still. When her muscles stop resisting.
When her breathing evens out completely.
She’s asleep.
Not pretend sleep. Not a stolen pause. She’s asleep.
For real. Against him. In the only place it feels possible.
And he—he doesn’t close his eyes. Not yet. He listens. He stays awake.
He waits for everything inside her to quiet down. Not to protect her.
Just to be there. All the way through.