You and him had an argument. A bad one. So bad that both of you ended up walking away from each other without fixing anything.

You grabbed a pillow and stayed in the guest room like pride could keep you warm.

Hours passed.

You lay there staring at the ceiling, wide awake, replaying everything in your head. The things you said. The things he didn’t. Somewhere between the anger and the silence, you realised you missed him more than you wanted to admit.

And you hated that part.

At 2 a.m., a soft knock echoed against the door.

Once. Then twice.

You held your breath, pretending to be asleep. The door opened anyway.

He stood there like he hadn’t slept at all—hair a mess, eyes heavy, shoulders slumped like the weight of the night finally caught up to him. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“I forgot something,” he said, voice low, careful.

You murmured. “Then take it and go.”

For a second, he just looked at you. Like he was memorizing your face in the dim light.

Then he stepped inside.

Before you could say anything, his arms were around you—strong, steady—lifting you off the bed as if you weighed nothing.

You gasped, fingers gripping his shirt. “What are you doing?”

“Taking what I forgot,” he muttered, adjusting his hold, pressing you closer to his chest as he carried you straight back to your shared bed, as if the argument never happened.