The mattress shifted, a slow, deliberate release of weight that woke me instantly. Beside me, Evan was a shadow sliding toward the bedroom door, his bare feet making no sound on the floorboards.
I kept my breathing shallow, staring at the empty space where his shoulder usually blocked the faint light from the hallway. The digital clock on the dresser glowed twelve.
He did not look back. He slipped through the doorway, leaving the door open just a crack, his movements too quiet, too practiced.
My hand reached for the empty side of the bed, finding only the cold, smooth cotton of the sheets. The smell of lavender laundry detergent did nothing to calm the sudden prickle of heat in my chest.
I waited fifteen minutes, counting the slow expansion of my own lungs until the silence in our small two-bedroom house became too loud to bear.
In the kitchen, the single bulb over the sink cast long, pale shadows across the green linoleum. Evan was standing by the counter, his fingers wrapped around an empty mug, staring out the window into the dark Oregon mist.
I poured myself a glass of water, the tap running cold and sharp against my knuckles. “Evan?”
