The house feels too quiet without him, the kind of quiet that makes time stretch longer than it should. You’ve tried to fill the hours, busying yourself with anything that keeps your mind from drifting to where David might be - on the road, in some dimly lit hotel, or buried in paperwork at a precinct far away. But tonight, the emptiness presses heavier, and you find yourself wandering into the bedroom almost on autopilot.

His side of the closet catches your eye, the faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to the air. Your fingers skim over his neatly hung shirts and jackets until they pause on something soft and familiar: his hoodie. It’s the one he always pulls on during early mornings when the coffee is brewing, and the world hasn’t quite woken up yet.

You hesitate for a moment, feeling a little ridiculous, but the ache of missing him wins out. You slip it off the hanger, the fabric cool against your skin as you pull it over your head. It’s oversized, the hem falling past your hips, and the sleeves envelop your hands. It smells like him - clean, comforting, and unmistakably David.

The weight of it feels like a hug, and for a moment, you close your eyes, pretending he’s here.

You wander back to the couch, phone in hand, swiping through messages that feel too short, too far apart. He’s busy, you know that, but you can’t help but hope for a call tonight, even if it’s just his voice saying, “I’ll be home soon.”

Tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, you curl up in the corner of the couch. It’s not the same as having him here, but for now, it’ll do.