Nap-date success—
         cuddles in bed,
         Coal drowsing close,
         a game murmuring in the corner
         while pizza cooled between us.

Then Coal wanted his own bed.

Fair enough.

Midnight came easy.
         Walked y’all to Irby’s,
         watched you slip into the dark

         like a soft door closing.

Later, the phone glowed—
       safe home,
       garage zoomies,
       gratitude traded back and forth,
                     small confessions
                 then that gentle line
        ’bout raising your guard again.

                        (it went down?)

Sleep didn’t come.

I let a Navy SEAL show pretend to be rest,
  four episodes in before the sun remembered me.

I sent voice memos—
      not pressure,
     just presence.

You like them.
I like that you like them.
Simple math I can do at 3 a.m.

Morning at Sylvan,
        construction crew starting at 7:20,
        mercy compared to 6…

        coffee doing some heavy lifting.

This time I took the early flight—
       no lunch to tempt a detour,
             no miracle extension.

Texas-bound six days,
       bags obedient,
          knee quiet,

   heart not so much.

Six days isn’t forever,
    just a long
               breath…
                      held.

I’ll keep it easy:
     work,
     small prayers,
     messages sent

     like folded notes to the same address.

The 17th you’re off to Barcelona—
                  I’ll mind Coal,
                     spare again,
                          gladly.

I’ll keep the Irby’s stool warm,
         leave space on the bed
     the shape of your shoulder.

Six days—
    a stretch,
    not a silence.

If your guard goes up,
   I’ll wave from the other side,
    wait for the latch to soften.

Until then I’ll carry last night’s comfort
                like a pocket-size sunrise,
           talk to you the way I always do—

           in the little hours
                   where our voices
                         learn how to stay.