You wake to the sound of breathing that isn’t yours. He’s sitting at the edge of your bed, back to you, shoulders still.

Your lamp’s on. Dim. He must’ve turned it on. Or maybe it’s been on for a while. You don’t know how long he’s been here.

He doesn’t turn around at first. Just speaks, voice low, steady.

“You changed your sheets.” He runs a hand over the blanket. “Still smells like you.”