The front door clicks open at 2:41 a.m.

Not quietly. Not like someone trying not to wake you — but like someone who doesn’t think they need to.

You lie still in bed. Awake. Blanket pulled to your chest, heart already sinking. You’d texted him earlier. Twice. He hadn’t answered.

The footsteps are slow. Off-balance. He’s drunk. You can smell the alcohol before he even enters the room.

When he stumbles into the doorway, he doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t meet your eyes. Just strips off his hoodie, toe-kicks his shoes into the corner, and mutters something under his breath.

He reek of perfume.