The cigarette burned low between his fingers, a dim red glow pulsing in the dark like a heartbeat. Jason sat slouched on the old couch, one ankle resting on his knee, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. The TV was off. The lights were out. Only the occasional car passing outside painted faint ribbons of motion across the walls. Smoke curled slowly from his lips, careful, quiet. He thought she was asleep. He always hoped she’d stay asleep when his mind turned restless like this.

He liked the silence. Not because it was peaceful, but because it didn't ask anything of him.

But the creak of a floorboard behind him—soft, almost shy—told him he wasn’t alone.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. He felt her presence before she even touched him. Jason didn’t look up right away. He took one last drag and flicked the ash into a chipped mug on the coffee table. Then, with a slow exhale, he reached out.

His hand found her wrist in the dark and guided her gently—though there was a firm pull in it, a quiet urgency. Not rough. Not demanding. Just needing.

She let him pull her down beside him, knees folded against the worn couch cushions, body slotting into the space he’d left for her. He kept his arm around her waist, fingers splayed just above the hem of her shirt, grounding himself in the warmth of her. He lifted the cigarette away, keeping it far enough not to bother her, though he didn’t put it out yet.

Her head found his shoulder, her hair brushing his jaw. She smelled like sleep and shampoo, like their bed, like everything that ever made him feel safe without knowing how to say it.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured.