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Monty had gone to bed first that night, already half-asleep by the time Carla slid in beside him. Out of habit – muscle memory carved by years of sharing the same bed – he rolled over and draped himself over her, arm slung across her torso, leg hooked loosely over her thigh. Carla made a small approving noise and kissed his hair before settling in.
For the first ten minutes, everything was fine.
Then Carla’s breathing changed.
Monty didn’t notice at first. He was drifting, consciousness thinning, when the vibration began beneath his cheek. A low, rumbling sound. Almost like distant thunder.
He frowned slightly, eyes still closed.
The rumble escalated.
Within seconds, Carla let out a snore so loud and sudden that Monty physically jolted. His forehead bumped against her collarbone.
“Jeez,” he whispered.
Carla snorted again and rolled onto her side without warning. Monty clung to her instinctively, suddenly reoriented like a confused koala. Her arm flung backward and smacked him square in the chest.
“Oof, fuck!”
She did not wake up.
In fact, she seemed to sink deeper into sleep, mouth falling open as she exhaled loudly through her nose. The snoring resumed, this time rhythmic and aggressive, like she was sawing logs with personal, malicious intent.
Monty stared at the ceiling, eyes wide.
He had married this woman. Had stood and vowed to love her forever. No one had warned him about this absolute bullshit.
The bed shifted again as Carla twitched, her knee jerking sharply into his thigh. Monty hissed quietly and adjusted, trying to salvage some comfort. He shifted his head a few inches away from her face.
Carla immediately followed him.
She rolled back, draping herself halfway over him now, trapping him beneath her shoulder. Her breath blew hot against his neck.
It smelled faintly of toothpaste and sleep and the garlic-heavy pasta they’d had for dinner.
She snored directly into his ear.
“Oh my god,” Monty mouthed, staring into the dark. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
She shifted again, aggressively this time, dragging the comforter with her and leaving Monty exposed to the cool air. He reached for the blanket, only for her to kick backward, heel narrowly missing his stomach.
Carla snored louder after.
At some point – Monty would later remember this vividly and laugh about it to her face for eternity – she farted.
Monty froze.
He stared into the darkness, hand hovering uselessly in the air, then slowly lowered it to his face as his shoulders began to shake. He bit his lip so hard he almost bled trying not to laugh.
“You’re unreal,” he whispered into the pillow.
Carla, as if personally offended by his judgment, rolled again and kicked the blanket halfway off the bed.
Sleep, for Monty, came in fragments after that – short, interrupted bursts between snores and flails and the occasional elbow to the ribs. Still, when morning finally arrived, pale light spilling through the curtains, he was smiling despite himself.
Carla woke up refreshed.
Of course she did.
She stretched slowly, luxuriously, arms reaching above her head, completely unaware of the war crimes she’d committed overnight. She yawned and rolled slightly, smiling when she felt Monty still there, warm and solid against her.
He was very still.
Too still.
She frowned down at him. “Monty?”
No response.
She brushed her thumb gently over his cheek. “Hey.”
Monty snorted loudly, intentionally, and jerked like he’d been startled awake.
Carla jumped. “What the hell?”
He opened one eye, then the other, glaring at her with the levels of a frog, staring at her with exaggerated exhaustion. “Morning, my darling.”
“Why do you look like you got hit by a truck,” she asked suspiciously.
Monty sat up slowly, groaning for effect, rubbing his shoulder. “I just want you to know,” he said gravely, “that I have seen some things.”
Carla squinted. “What are you talking about?”
“You,” he replied flatly. “You are what I’m talking about.”
She scoffed, “I slept fine.”
“Oh, you slept like an angel,” Monty said, “I slept like a man trapped in a washing machine with a feral animal.”
Her eyes narrowed, “I don’t snore.”
Monty stared at her.
Really stared.
“Carla,” he said slowly, “you sounded like a chainsaw.”
“That is not true.”
“You elbowed me.”
“I did not.”
“You kicked me.”
“I move a normal amount.”
“You drooled on me.”
She paused, silenced for a while, “Okay, maybe that one.”
“And,” he added, leaning closer with a shit-eating grin, “you farted.”
Her face went bright red. In an attempt to defend herself, she could only muster up an embarrassed “I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” he said cheerfully.
She shoved him hard. “You’re lying. You’re making it up.”
“I am literally married to you,” Monty said, “I gain nothing from lying. This is just my burden.”
She groaned and buried her face in the pillow, “Oh my god. Please tell me you’re exaggerating.”
“I am underselling it,” he replied proudly. “At one point I was convinced you were fighting someone in your dreams. You kicked the blanket off like it owed you money.”
She peeked up at him, mortified. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
He softened then, just a little. “You looked peaceful,” he said. “Terrifying. But peaceful.”
She laughed despite herself, rolling onto her back. “I can’t believe you married me.”
Monty immediately flopped back down on top of her, draping himself over her like a familiar weight. “I absolutely can. And I’d do it again.”
She wrapped an arm around him, smiling, “You’re never going to let this go, are you?”
“Not a chance,” he said. “This is marital ammunition. I’ll bring it up forever.”
“Monty–”
“Anniversary dinner? ‘Remember the night you snored like a jet engine.’”
She groaned. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” he murmured, nuzzling into her shoulder, “you love me.”
She squeezed him gently, “Yeah. I do.”
He smiled, content, settling comfortably against her.