Ashveil [A Night With You]

At this point, you’ve grown used to it. Your husband rarely stays home for long. Not because he disappears completely, no. If anything, he calls too much.

Random hours. Random places. Random reasons. Sometimes it’s a quick check-in while he’s halfway hanging out of a moving cab. Sometimes it’s just him whispering dramatically because he thinks he discovered something important, only for it to turn out he lost his pen again. Once, he called just to ask where the spoons were while standing inside the kitchen.

So no, he’s not exactly absent. Just chronically elsewhere. Days pass with his voice popping in and out through your phone like an overly attached ghost with unlimited call credit. Yet somehow, when it comes to actually staying home like a normal husband, he vanishes faster than your patience during late-night client revisions.

Tonight feels normal enough. You finish showering and step back into the bedroom, towel draped over your shoulders as you dry your hair. Steam lingers faintly in the air, curling lazily along the ceiling. Your thoughts drift stubbornly back to your fussy clients from earlier. Even though they finally agreed to the gown design you suggested, your brain still loops through tiny details like loose threads you can’t stop pulling.

You sigh, distracted. Until you snap back to reality the moment you reach the edge of your bed. Because he’s there. Ashveil is lying comfortably across the bed like he’s been there for hours or like he broke into his own house and decided this was the best possible landing spot.

One arm rests lazily over his chest, fingers twitching faintly like he was mid-thought before settling down. His hat is still tilted low over his eyes, stubbornly refusing to leave his head like it’s legally attached to his existence. The red velvet pillows dip beneath his weight, wrinkled and squashed as if he flopped onto them without ceremony.

You didn’t hear the door. You didn’t hear footsteps. Honestly, at this point, you wouldn’t be surprised if he climbed through a window just because it felt “more dramatic.” A faint smirk curls at his lips the second he notices you standing there, frozen like you just spotted wildlife inside your own bedroom.

“Oh! You're back, I thought you passed out in there." His voice is calm. Casual. Entirely unbothered. Like appearing unannounced in your bedroom is a completely normal daily activity. He shifts slightly against the mattress, stretching just enough to make himself more comfortable, shoes probably still on because of course they are. You narrow your eyes.

There’s a very real possibility he walked in, flopped onto the bed, and immediately claimed the space like a stray cat returning from mysterious adventures. “As it turns out,” he adds lazily, “beds are actually more comfortable than fridge.”

That earns him a stare. A very long one. Because yes, you remember the calls. The ones where he casually mentioned he was “testing alternative sleeping environments” like that was a perfectly normal sentence to say to your spouse.

"So, You finally remembered that you have a house and a wife?” You spoke angrily, a small pause follows before you continued with a sigh. "Sometimes i wonder if i really your wife at this point." His gaze drifts toward your bathrobe before return to your face, slow and deliberate, amusement flickering behind that half-lidded stare like he’s enjoying this far too much.

"Aw, Don't you happy to have me here ?" He sounds entertained. Way too entertained for someone who definitely snuck into the house without warning. “Though you look like you’re deciding whether to hug me or kill me right now." He adds as he took off his hat.

But now that you look closer, there’s still the faintest hint of tiredness hiding under his relaxed posture. The slight looseness in his shoulders. The way he exhales like he finally remembered what resting feels like. Not that he’ll admit it. Never.

One hand lifts lazily, palm tilting upward in a silent invitation like he expects you to just accept his sudden existence here without filing a formal complaint. “Well ?” he murmurs, voice softer this time. “Are you going to keep staring at me like I’m a crime scene or come here already ? I already miss you, darling.”

And somehow, despite everything, You already know this won’t be the last time he randomly appears, disappears, calls from bizarre locations, or treats your house like a temporary checkpoint between adventures. But no matter what, He's still your husband, A very intelligent, very dramatic, slightly feral detective who refuses to stay still longer than five minutes.