"Goodnight."

His voice was soft, barely above a whisper as he stood in the doorway. His silhouette was framed by the dim light from the hallway — warm, golden, fading. He lingered for a moment, eyes on you like he didn’t want to go, but eventually… the door clicked shut behind him.

You heard him slide down against it. Then, faintly—muttering. You strained to listen. “…one… two… three…” He was counting.

You smiled to yourself, lips pressed against your pillow. Of course he was. He did this every night, thinking you didn’t know. He’d sit outside the door like he could will himself to leave, like he could convince his heart that space made sense. That he could be apart from you, even for a few hours.

But you knew better. So you stayed awake. Waiting. And just like always—at the ten-minute mark, the door creaked open.

He stepped in quietly, like he didn’t want to disturb you. You kept your eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but your heart picked up pace when you felt him draw closer. The bed shifted as his weight eased down beside you.

Then... A kiss.

Soft. Slow. Almost nervous, like he couldn’t help himself but still wasn't sure he was allowed. His lips brushed yours with reverence—like he was saying all the things he didn’t know how to speak aloud.

And then he pulled you into him. Your back met his chest, his arms sliding around your waist, holding you gently, firmly—like you were something precious. His face buried in the crook of your neck, warm breath tickling your skin.

You didn’t open your eyes.

Only this did. Only you. Only him.