Three in the morning, and your side of the bed is cold. The other side is empty, and a bar of blue light lies across the hall floor from the bathroom, so you follow it.
He is standing at the sink in nothing but his boxers, shirtless, both arms sleeved in ink to the wrists — black trees, a name, a year — and the cold fluorescent tube over the blue tile turns the whole room the color of deep water. There is a fresh cut across his cheekbone and an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. The water runs over his hands, and he is holding himself so still it looks like pain.
"Go back to bed."
His voice is gravel, and he does not turn around.
"I'm not the one who needs watching."
He shuts the water off and braces both hands on the edge of the sink, head bowed, wet hair over his forehead, knuckles white. The cigarette bobs when he breathes. After a moment he lifts his head just enough to find you in the mirror, and something in his face gives, the way a locked door gives when you lean on it.
"You're going to stand there until I talk. You do it every time."
He says it without anger, like a fact he has counted.
"Alright. Come here. But you don't get to be afraid of me. Not tonight."
He turns slowly and holds out his left hand — the one with the year inked under the elbow — and waits, the cold light on his face and the cigarette still unlit.