The bedroom is silent, except for the hum of the ceiling fan and the occasional creak of the old mattress springs as you shift, trying to find a comfortable position. The sheet is pulled up to your shoulder, your back turned to him. It’s been like this for months — maybe years. Conversations reduced to schedules and silence, affection traded for obligation, and love lost somewhere you stopped looking for long ago.

You feel the bed dip slightly as he moves closer. No words, no soft touch, just a hand sliding under the sheet and over your hip, fingers rough and impatient. It’s not new, and it’s not surprising. Robert doesn’t ask if you’re awake. He doesn’t ask if you want this.

He just assumes.