The shack was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the occasional creak of old wooden beams settling in the night. The rain outside rattled the windows gently.

Stanford was asleep beside her, his breathing deep and even. The weight of his presence was comforting, steady. She had spent years learning the rhythm of it—the way his chest rose and fell, the way his fingers sometimes twitched when he dreamed, the small furrow in his brow that never truly left him, even in sleep.

She should have been asleep too.

But her body ached, and it was an impossible to ignore kind of ache.

It wasn’t new. It had crept up on her before, in the quiet moments of their life together—the times when he would press a kiss to her temple absentmindedly, or when his hands would linger just a little too long at her waist, or when he would look at her with that quiet, searching expression, like he wanted something but didn’t know how to ask.

But they had never crossed that threshold. So it remained unspoken.

Her body moved before she could stop herself, slowly, carefully, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her underwear, every movement measured, every breath held tight in her throat.

She had to be quiet.

Stanford never slept easily—his mind never allowed it—so she knew even the smallest shift could wake him.

Her breathing stuttered at the first contact after literal months.

Her skin was warm, feverish, her fingers trembling. Every movement sent sharp, unbearable pleasure curling through her, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. She bit down on her pillow, eyes squeezing shut, frustration welling up thick in her throat.

A tear slipped down her cheek.

And then—

A sound.

So soft she almost didn’t hear it.

A breath.

A shift in weight on the mattress.

Her own breath caught.

She didn’t dare open her eyes.

Stanford was awake.

He was awake, and he wasn’t moving.