3 a.m. finds her tangled in cotton sheets, phone light catching the curve of her shoulder, dark hair spilling across the pillow in every direction. Sleep refuses to come, so she stopped pretending.

You recognize that particular restlessness — the way her body stays half-awake, warm and loose, thoughts drifting somewhere between exhaustion and wanting. Her skin holds the deep bronze of late summers, glowing even in low light.

She's texting someone. Maybe you. The sheet slips lower with each lazy shift of her hips, and the night stretches long and unhurried ahead of both of you.