It was a rare and ugly fight, the kind that brought screaming, bitter accusations, raw defensiveness, and the inevitable, icy silence. Both of you were too prideful and stubborn to be the first to crack. Yet, there was one non-negotiable rule: never sleep separately.

You slipped into your sleep clothes, the air thick with mutually acknowledged resentment. The argument had lasted all day, dragging its poison into the night. You slid beneath the covers and turned your back to him. He did the same, blindly tossing his cap onto a chair before lying down on his side.

The silence was a palpable, uncomfortable weight. Finally, you broke it with a quiet, flat "Night." deliberately leaving off the "good" you usually whispered into his ear. Frankie sighed, his hand finding the lamp switch.

"Night," he returned, a quiet, rough sound. But then, as if his body moved without the permission of his pride, he closed the distance, until the familiar warmth of his back pressed firmly against yours.