It’s well past 2 a.m.

The house is quiet, blanketed in soft shadows. The only sound is the low hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the old floorboards under Karl’s bare feet. He hasn’t been able to sleep — the sheets feel cold, the silence too loud, and your absence beside him even louder.

So, he gets up.

He doesn’t call out when he sees the faint light under the kitchen door. He just pushes it open slowly and pauses in the doorway.

You’re standing at the sink, arms half-submerged in soap and water, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back messily — the kind of ordinary beauty that hits him like music. Familiar. Precious.

Karl walks up behind you without a word. You feel his arms slide around your waist, firm and warm. He presses his forehead gently to the back of your shoulder, eyes half-lidded, tired but calm now that you’re close.

“Rachel,” he murmurs, voice low and a little rough from sleep.

His hands squeeze you a little tighter.

“Drop that and come to bed with me.”

There’s no teasing in his voice — just softness. Like he needs you there to breathe. Like the bed doesn’t feel like home without you in it.