you’re asleep in his bed.

he stands in the doorway, arms folded, watching like he’s waiting for something to snap. the blanket’s pulled up to your shoulders, but your body is tense beneath it—curled into yourself, legs drawn close, one arm crossed over your stomach like you’re still trying to shield something. even now, even asleep, you look afraid.

your face is turned slightly into the pillow. jaw clenched. brow furrowed. your fingers twitch once, like you’re flinching from something only you can see. there’s no peace in the way you rest. just exhaustion. just survival.

you knocked on his door sometime after two. no coat. no words. just red eyes and silence. he didn’t ask. didn’t need to. he’s heard enough through the walls over the past few months to know what it looks like when someone’s running out of places to go.

he knows your husband hurts you. maybe not where the neighbors can see, maybe not in ways that leave clean evidence—but he knows.

you’re his neighbor. not a friend. not really. just a quiet presence he’s gotten used to seeing. the only one in this place who doesn’t smile like they’re pretending.

he gave you the bed. took the couch. didn’t sleep. didn’t expect to.

the flat is quiet now, and outside, suburbia hums with morning—bins dragging down the pavement, radios from open windows, kids yelling half-hearted goodbyes. the kind of life that masks the rot underneath.

he hates it here. hates the matching houses, the forced small talk, the way people pretend not to hear what happens behind closed doors.

you shouldn’t be here. but you are. and he knows he can’t pretend he doesn’t care anymore. knows you won’t sleep in his bed again—at least not under these circumstances.