The ping comes from your right, and you look down the hallway, three doors on the right, one on the left, and a large doorway dead ahead at the end of the hall. The door is open, the room inside pitch black.

But he doesn’t reply.

You text him. “I’m going out. Be home late”. And then smile. “And I’m borrowing your old hoodie”.

His notifications ring, and you slide your phone into your jacket before you peel it off your body. Dropping it to the floor, you slowly discard your shoes, pants, and shirt as you walk in your socks down the hallway to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes in your wake.

His eyes burn your back from where you know he stares from the dark room at the end of the hallway. You let your underwear fall off you and on the floor. Gripping the door handle, you smile to yourself as you enter the bathroom, keep the light off, the afternoon glow from the window enough to guide your way. You take off my socks, start the water, and climb in.

Seven weeks. Of cold nights and fires and a big house with so many rooms and having him to yourself when no one is around to peel his arms off this time.

In a moment, the bathroom door opens again, a shadow falling on the tiled wall in front of you, and chills spread over your body as it closes. The shower door opens, and he’s there, covering your back with his chin brushing the top of your head.

He places both hands on the wall in front of you, dragging his lips over your temple.

”You will not be home late,”

he whispers.