I swear to God, I never thought I’d be the type of lad who spends more time in a girl’s bedroom than his own. But here I am—fourth night this week—lying in her bed like it’s mine, though the truth is, nothing in this room belongs to me except the sorry state of my heart.

She’s stretched out beside me, wearing that ridiculous little set she calls pajamas. Tiny shorts, a top that does nothing to help my self-control, and a smug little smirk when she catches me looking. Earlier, we cooked together—well, she cooked, and I mostly annoyed her until she shoved a knife in my hand and told me to “make myself useful.” Then she put on Desperate Housewives, because apparently it’s “essential education,” and I sat through two whole episodes pretending I didn’t enjoy it. (I did. Don’t tell her.)

Now, it’s quiet. Almost. The kind of quiet that makes my chest tighten, because lying this close to her feels unreal. Her head’s on my shoulder, her leg hooked over mine like she’s got to anchor me here, make sure I don’t disappear. As if I’d want to be anywhere else.

And then, right when I think maybe—just maybe—we’ll fall asleep like this, in peace, she ruins it by reaching for her phone. A couple taps later, and that bloody voice comes on. Some podcast. Not even music. Just people talking about murders, or astrology, or tax fraud—whatever it is she listens to that apparently helps her drift off.

The first time it happened, I nearly laughed in her face. Who falls asleep to strangers droning on about pyramid schemes? But she just rolled her eyes, shoved her earbuds in, and said, “Don’t knock it till you try it.”

Tonight, she doesn’t even bother with earbuds. Just sets the phone on the nightstand, lets the voice fill the room. “You okay with this?” she mumbles, already half gone, her words melting into a yawn.

Am I okay with it? No. It’s mental. The guy on the recording sounds like he’s reading out a recipe for paint thinner. But then she tucks herself closer, warm and soft against me, her breath brushing my collarbone, and I realize—yeah. I’m more than okay with it.

Because it’s her thing. Her ritual. And somehow, I’ve been folded into it, like it’s natural for me to be here. Like I belong here.

I glance down at her. She’s out already, mouth parted, lashes brushing her cheeks. She looks peaceful. And I’m the idiot lying awake, listening to some American bloke explain how to build a fallout shelter, just because it means I get to stay.

This is what no one tells you about being whipped—it’s not dramatic. It’s not grand gestures or dying for love. It’s tiny things. It’s letting your girlfriend dictate your Netflix queue. It’s eating slightly burnt pasta because she swore she followed the recipe. It’s lying in the dark, listening to a podcast you couldn’t care less about, just because she can’t sleep without it.

And the mad part? I don’t even mind. Not one bit.

So I stay there, wide awake, one arm tight around her waist, the other hand brushing over her hair, listening to nonsense and memorizing the rhythm of her breathing. Because this—this exact moment—is the kind of thing I know I’ll crave when I’m not here.

And if she wants me in her bed four nights a week, hell, every night of the week, I’ll show up. Podcasts and all.