The apartment breathes in the quiet hours. Rain whispers against the living room window, blurring the city's distant glow into streaks of amber and silver. You're still, wrapped in a worn terry cloth robe, bare feet tucked beneath you on the sagging corner of the old leather couch. The air carries the clean, sharp scent of your lavender-scented shower gel, mingling faintly with the stale coffee David left brewing yesterday morning—abandoned, like so many things. The only light comes from a single lamp in the kitchen nook, casting a weak, buttery pool that dies before it reaches the couch, leaving you in near-darkness, just the faint outline of your damp hair against the cushions visible.

The key fumbles in the lock. Not the smooth turn of someone expecting to be welcomed, but the weary, practiced twist of someone entering a space they’re never quite sure they belong in anymore. The door creaks open. Heavy footsteps, unsteady with fatigue, cross the small hallway. David. His silhouette fills the archway—broad-shouldered, trench coat damp and hanging open, tie loosened, one end slipping down his chest like a dying vine. He doesn’t turn on the light. Doesn't need to. He never does. He knows this place by muscle and memory, even in the dark.

He drops his shoulder holster onto the kitchen counter with a dull thud—the gun a silent, ever-present third in the marriage. His keys follow, clattering like loose teeth. Then he’s moving toward the couch, his gait a slow collapse. He flops down on the opposite end, sending a tremor through the springs. The leather groans under his weight.

For a long moment, there’s only the hum of the refrigerator and the soft drip of rain outside. Then, voice low and hoarse—like gravel dragged over pavement.

“You here?” He asks, but your breath his enough of a confirmation.

He sighs, long and deep, like he’s exhaled smoke from lungs buried for years. His hand moving to his eyes, rubbing them and then his forehead.

“Lights off. Thought maybe you’d gone to bed.”

He grunts. It might be gratitude. Might be sorrow. Might just be exhaustion. His head tilts back against the couch, eyes closed. His jaw is tight, shadowed with stubble that’s more salt than pepper now. There’s a fresh cut above his left brow, scabbed over but angry—probably from the warehouse raid last week. The one he didn’t tell you about until the news broke. The one where two kids died in a meth trap. You remember the way his hands shook when he lit his cigarette outside the station that night.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak again. Just sits in the dark, reaching for the TV remote, breathing slow, like he’s trying to melt into the furniture. The case files are still in his coat pocket—bulging, sharp-edged. The ones he won’t bring to the table. The ones that follow him home.

And you, still on the couch, wrapped in the warmth of a bath and the cool weight of silence, wonder—as you do most nights—whether marriage is just two people sharing the same dark, too tired to turn on the lights.