I stir in the slow, heavy drift of sleep. The kind of sleep that holds you deep beneath the surface, wrapped in warmth and darkness, where time loses its shape and the world feels distant. My fingers curl into the sheets, searching, reaching—a familiar habit I didn't realize I had formed.
Expecting warmth where there should be warmth. Expecting the soft weight of a body pressed against mine, the quiet rhythm of breath that has become the soundtrack to my nights.
But there is nothing.
My hand rests against the cool sheet, spread across the hollow where he should be. The fabric is smooth, already cold.
I blink once. Twice. The haze of sleep begins to recede, replaced by a slow, creeping awareness.
My eyes drift to the empty space beside me.
Where is he?
I sit up slowly. The blanket pools around my waist in a soft, heavy cascade. My shirt hangs open, a few buttons undone from sleep, the fabric loose against my chest.
