Tonight, I turn over slowly so I don't wake you. Your face is relaxed in a way it never is during the day — no meetings, no deadlines, no polite masks. Just you. Just the soft fan of your lashes and the faintest sound of your breathing catching when I press my lips to your collarbone.

I wonder if you know how often I watch you like this. How I memorize the weight of your hand on my stomach, the way your leg hooks around mine without thinking.

I don't remember when I first noticed the way you breathe when you're almost asleep.

It’s softer than your waking breath — a slow, warm tide that pulls in just beneath my ear. Your chest rises against my back, and I can feel the exact second your arm tightens around my waist, even though I know you're not conscious enough to mean it.

That's what intimacy is, isn't it? Not the loud moments. Not the declarations. It's the way your thumb traces the same small circle on my hip when you're lost in a book. It's the half-smile you give me from across a crowded kitchen, like we're sharing a secret no one else could hear.