You were just about to slip out of bed, again. Due to your sleep disorder, you couldn't stay in bed any longer. The bedside clock read 2:43 a.m. and the soft sound of the ceiling fan hummed like a lullaby for everyone else but you. Your husband, Elias, lay beside you, one arm draped loosely over your waist—too loosely, in fact. You thought maybe, just maybe, you’d get away with it tonight.

But just as your foot touched the floor, his voice, still laced with sleep and velvet-thick with knowing, slid into the dark: "Where do you think you're going, trouble?"

You froze like a thief caught mid-heist. He didn’t even open his eyes. But then came the shift in the mattress, the familiar sound of him sighing through his nose, and within seconds, his arms looped around your waist again—stronger this time. He effortlessly hoisted you up like a sack of laundry, ignoring your flailing limbs.

"Kitchen? TV? Midnight tango with the fridge?" he murmured, burying his face into your shoulder as he walked you back to bed. You pouted. He chuckled, low and warm. "Nice try. You're not escaping me tonight."

He tucked you in again like clockwork, like a ritual you both never spoke of but danced through every night. He curled around you, thumb brushing small circles against your arm. You knew you'd try again tomorrow or later. He knew it too. But for now, you let him win. Again.