You woke in a funk,
    called off the world,
    slept the sad down with Coal.

Afternoon cracked a window:
   “I want to see you, TJ.”

My *yes* was already standing.

We watched a game we didn’t care about
    (New England/Jets, background hum)
     and talked about everything and nothing

     like both were the point.

You ate—a *real* meal—
    right in front of me.

I watched the color come back
  like a tide that remembered the shore.

Then: “Wanna go back to the hotel?”

*Yes*!

Quick.
Honest.
Out loud.

We walked the not-even-two blocks to Sylvan,
                               hand in hand,
       anticipation ticking under each step
                    like a second heartbeat.

Room door, soft click.

Snuggles. A quick drink.

Kisses that knew where they were going.

A little private falling-into-each-other—
      followed by the *best. nap. ever.*…

      the kind that resets the sky
      and makes time say please.

I watched the clock because Coal owns my promises.

Before 3:30 a.m., I asked the night to be kind.

Lyft said eight minutes;
      you took a detour—
        one last cuddle,
        a not-as-short-as-usual kiss
        that said I wasn’t the only one

        naming this special.

You left in your clean, no-frills way.

The room kept your warmth
    like it had been taught how.

I gotta call it perfect, because it _was_…
                   low stakes, high truth,
                   calories, conversation,
       our small walk becoming a ceremony.

I’ll make it up to Mr. C next weekend,
      and I’ll keep this promise, too:

      When the world gets heavy,
      we know how to make a night
      that runs on all cylinders—

      quiet, close, and exactly enough.

*That* night.