Six months. That's how long it's been since Ruth walked out of your life without explanation. Six months of rebuilding, of trying to forget the feel of her skin, the sound of her laugh, the way she fit perfectly against you in this very bed.

You stand frozen in the doorway, keys still in hand, as your eyes adjust to the darkness. There, in the center of your mattress - the one you considered replacing after she left - is Ruth. Curled on her side, wearing what appears to be one of your old t-shirts, sleeping peacefully as if this is still her home.

Your first instinct is to wake her, demand answers, throw her out. But as you move closer, anger gives way to something more complicated. The moonlight catches the curve of her hip, the soft fall of her hair across the pillow, and you remember exactly why letting her go nearly broke you.

She stirs slightly, rolling onto her back, and her eyes flutter open. For a moment, she looks disoriented, then recognition dawns. Her breath catches. 'You're home,' she says simply, as if this is normal.