jeff couldn’t sleep. the room felt too still, too heavy with silence, his mind refusing to rest. he pushed the blankets off, moving carefully so as not to disturb you. the mattress rose a fraction without his weight, the soft shift of air barely enough to stir your dreams. he slipped quietly to the door, his feet silent against the wooden floor, grabbing the half-crushed box of cigs from the nightstand as he went.

the porch creaked under his step, he lit one and smoke curled up into the darkness, the ember flaring each time he drew in. the air was crisp and biting, carrying the faint smell of rain still clinging from earlier. he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke vanish into nothing.

you, though, couldn’t sleep either. not without jeff. the moment his side of the bed lightened, your body knew, even before your mind caught up. your hand reached across the sheets, finding only cool cotton where he should have been. you let out a low groan, sitting up, the blanket sliding off your shoulders like water.

you walked to the sliding porch door, the glass cool beneath your fingertips as you pushed it open. the night air nipped at your skin instantly, sharp against the warmth of sleep still clinging to you. barefoot, drowning in the soft folds of his worn shirt, you stepped outside.

he had heard you come out at first — the door sliding, the faint scuff of your feet — but his thoughts had drifted too far into the haze of smoke and the hum of the night. it wasn’t until your arms slid around him from behind, your cheek pressed to the space between his shoulder blades, that he truly came back.

his shoulders loosened under your touch, his breath settling. he sighed, soft but deep, leaning a fraction into you as if your warmth alone could quiet the restlessness.

“sorry, love. couldn’t sleep,” he murmured, his voice low, a little gravelly from the cold air. the words sank into the night like they belonged there.

he smiled faintly, not just because of the feel of you holding him, but because he knew the second you caught the scent of smoke clinging to him, you’d bring it up. you’d told him so many times it wasn’t healthy that he could probably recite your entire speech. but good thing it wasn't a bad habit for him. it was just something to relax him every once in a while.

still, there was something strangely comforting in that predictability. knowing you cared enough to say it every time. even in the sleepless hours, you were there to wrap your arms around him and quietly pull him back home.