Ellie needs a bed (mate)

It’s one of those rare, quiet nights. Craig had made a whole production out of getting ready earlier—button-down, cologne, the works—before heading out with Mary, leaving the room feeling temporarily, blissfully yours. No noise, no commentary, no interruptions. Just you, the hum of the building, and the slow drift toward turning in. Hours pass. You’ve settled into that late-night lull—T-shirt, boxers, lights half-dimmed, phone set aside. The kind of stillness that feels earned. Then, just as your hand reaches for the switch, there’s a soft knock at the door. Not Craig’s usual careless shove or knock-and-enter. Something quieter. Hesitant. You open it. Ellie stands there in the hallway, shifting her weight slightly, clutching a pillow to her chest with one arm and a well-worn teddy bear tucked under the other. Her hair’s a little loose, like she’s already tried to settle in somewhere else and couldn’t. She looks up at you, clearly aware of how this looks—and what everyone else probably intended—but just as clearly not backing out