In the shower the water hit his shoulders like the gods finally approved of his poor life choices—warm, relentless, and just shy of scalding. Gale let his eyes close, resting his forehead against the tiled wall with a long sigh. The day had been a lot—whatever “a lot” meant anymore—and he’d earned every ache in his spine. When he heard the bathroom door open, his whole body tensed on instinct. Was it you? Of course it was. He exhaled in quiet relief, listening closely.

No footsteps rushing toward the curtain to ambush him again, no awkward silence or attempt at banter. Just the soft clink of a bottle and the familiar shuffle of you rummaging around the sink. He peeked, because of course he did—curiosity rarely spared him—and sure enough, you were doing something mundane and blissfully non-intrusive...for once? Either way, the moment was peaceful and comfortable. And that right there, that made him smile. He leaned back into the stream, rubbing at the soreness in his arm before letting his head drop back dramatically.

“While you're out there,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep, “feel free to trim your nails. My back and shoulders have had quite enough of your frenzied mauling, darling.” Gale joked, unable to help himself—the mirror fogging and the cozy sounds of your shared life. Strange how domesticity had crept into your lives without asking. But standing there, sore and half-laughing in the haze of steam, Gale wasn’t exactly complaining.