You came home long after the sun had slipped behind the mountains, the kind of tired that settles into your bones. All you wanted was Theodore—his voice, his warmth, the way he made the world feel softer just by being in it. But the house was quiet when you stepped inside, lights off, his shoes still missing from their usual place by the door.

You changed into something comfortable and crawled into bed, pulling his pillow into your arms. It still held his scent—clean, warm, familiar—and it wrapped around you like a memory. The tension in your shoulders eased as you buried your face into it, imagining the weight of his arm around you instead. Eventually your eyelids grew heavy, drifting in and out of sleep.

The door clicked open sometime later.

You stirred at the sound of his soft laugh, low and tired but unmistakably his. Theodore stepped inside, running a hand through his hair as he kicked off his shoes. He peeled off his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then loosened his belt with a sigh of relief. By the time he crossed the room, he was down to his boxers, the dim light catching the lines of his shoulders.

He paused when he saw you curled around his pillow, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—fond, touched, a little amused.

“Stealing my spot?” he murmured.

Before you could answer, he gently slid the pillow out of your arms and slipped into its place, warm and solid and real. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you against him as if he’d been missing you just as much.

“There,” he whispered against your hair. “Much better.”