Since our surprisingly fun date last night, Seth and I haven't had much time to converse. He's been working like a mad man lately, and I haven't been able to spare much time either. His birthday is in a week and I've still got one more desk to build. I have to finish before we celebrate or there's no way I can take that weekend off.

So, here I am at ten pm slaving over this dang desk. The pieces have all been cut and now I'm gluing the wood planks for the tabletop together. My fingers are nearly jittery with exhaustion. It's like not realizing how hungry you are until you start to smell the food. That's how I feel. I know that I've only got one step left for the evening before I'll have to leave the project to dry overnight, and my body is an anxious mess. I just need to be done. I need sleep.

I had to cancel on Steve today, which he was gracious enough to understand. I even told him my goal to finish the desks this week so I could spend a lovely weekend with my husband. He'd actually hummed in approval when I'd told him where we planned to go. If hobo Steve can appreciate what I've got planned with Seth, then Seth definitely will.

I'm only calling Steve a hobo right now because he actually took my advice seriously, and is trying to grow a man bun and a beard. He pretty much looks like a mangled Tarzan. I think he might have actually gone so far as to sleep in the dirt. And I wonder if he actually plucks random beard hairs to achieve that patchy look. Whatever it is that he's doing, it's bad. And yet, I'm an evil evil girl because I have no intention of telling him. I just want to wait it out and see how far he takes this. Thankfully, he hasn't asked my opinion on it yet, or I'd have to be honest and break his heart.

Finally, cranking the last clamp into place, I'm free from this crap shack. I love my workshop, but right now I'm tempted to saw my fingers off just so I have an excuse to never have to touch a plank of wood again. I'm weary all the way down to my toe hairs. I almost forget to lock up after myself on my way back to the house. Even the few feet that it requires me to walk feels like an impossible feat.

Flinging the door open, I trudge to the couch and drop face-first into it. For once in my life, I'm not even concerned about my empty stomach. I actually think I'm passed out before I even realize I'm hungry.

Seth must come home just after I've fallen asleep because I wake up at some unforgivable hour in the night with a blanket draped over my frame, and a sub sandwich sitting on the coffee table. I actually moan, and though it's not that loud, it nearly pierces my eardrums in the stillness of the house.

I'm ripping into the food before I can even question Seth's whereabouts. My eyes are drooping with bliss and exhaustion as I shove the last bite into my over-zealous mouth. Then I wad the trash up in my palm and launch it across the room. I don't care where it lands. I'll clean it up later... maybe.

Once the energy from my meal hits my brain, I'm awake. I couldn't fall back to sleep right now if you walloped me in the head with a sledgehammer. Curious now that my mental abilities are in full swing, I realize how odd it is to be sleeping on the couch. I never sleep here in fear that Seth will kick me out of his territory. But, that didn't happen.

I stand up from the couch and make my way to the guest bedroom. I assume that's where he is. I've often wondered why he chose the couch over the spare bed, and I think it has something to do with denial. A couch feels less permanent. He can sleep there without reality kicking in. But, the moment he claims the guest room as his own, our marriage is basically over. That's my theory anyway. I might never know the real reason.

I turn the knob and peer into the room. I was so positive he'd be in there that I would've bet anything on the fact that I'd find him snoozing peacefully in that bed. Heck, I would have literally bet my head on it—and I would have lost it—because he's not there. Good thing I'm not a gambling girl. I would have been dead by the age of three when I bet my dad I could do a cartwheel off the diving board. Let's just say, I don't go near diving boards anymore.

Stumped by the empty room, I turn and scan my eyes over our quiet house. I peer out the window and find his truck parked in the driveway, which means he's either here or someone else picked him up. I swivel around, spying his keys and wallet on the table. A wallet isn't something he normally would have left behind—unless Tracy forced him to leave it behind so he wouldn't be tempted to pay this time.

My imagination can be a mean place because I'm definitely visualizing myself hitting her... repeatedly.

Turning off my evil thoughts, I check the only other part of the house that my eyes haven't scanned. Tiptoeing down the hall, I freeze when the floor creeks. Waiting, I listen for any movement before continuing forward. The hinges groan as I swing the door of our room open carefully, and what I see has my body turning ice cold.

I wouldn't say it's a bad feeling. Just so unexpected that I momentarily panic. It's not a chaotic kind of panic, though. It's the kind that grabs you and glues you in place until your mind can connect all the dots together.

There he is, his chest rising and falling as rhythmic breaths escape in and out of his body. Again, he's shirtless, and I'm wondering why he chooses to sleep so comfortably when he's in our bed, and so reserved when on the couch. The only thing I can gather is that he fears someone will come knocking and he won't be prepared. There are just so many things about this guy that don't make any sense. And yet, I love him.

I'm being entirely serious when I say this, but yes, I do love him more than I love food. I can't help it. He's yummier than barbecue ribs.

I continue to eye him as thoughts spiral through my mind. I'd do the respectful thing and hightail it back to the spare room so he doesn't feel as though I've invaded his privacy, but, well... too bad. I'm doing it anyway.

I ditch my outer apparel and slide in next to him. I don't even bother to leave space between us. I slither my way as close to him as physically possible without fusing our cells together. He inhales deeply, shifting his body around at the sudden contact. I feel his arm slip into the small dip at my waist as he unknowingly pulls me closer. I'm holding my breath, waiting for him to wake up, and I find myself almost hoping that he will. I'm feeling exceptionally bold tonight and there's no telling what would go down if he suddenly blinks his eyes open and finds me squished to his side.

Suddenly his eyes do flicker open, and they roam around the room for a moment before settling on me. He flexes the arm that's looped around me once, clearly confused as to how it got there, but not bothered enough to move it. I can see his brows scrunched in bafflement and I swear his eyes are so glazed over right now that he looks like a drunk. It's adorable. He's so completely out of it that he doesn't realize he's cuddling with me.

I want to chuckle at our predicament, but just as a sound begins to travel up my throat, he speaks.

"Hey, Babe." The greeting is hoarse and dragged out longer than necessary. Drowsiness is making him slur his words slightly and I'm wondering just how awake he really is. "Where were you?"

This question clarifies everything. He doesn't typically ask me where I've been. I doubt he usually cares. This clues me into the fact that he's not completely with it. His mind is probably ninety-seven percent still in hibernation mode. He doesn't know what he's saying. He's just talking because somewhere in the back of his conscience, he knows I'm here. Which is exactly why I don't speak. My voice could be the one thing that pulls him into reality and I'm not ready to alert him to my presence just yet.

"I've missed you," he mumbles, turning his head and pressing his face into my hair. "I miss you."

I can't help myself. I have to respond. And so I do. "I miss you too."

If this moment was a glass jar, then those four little words were me basically dropping that jar from the Empire State Building. Shattered. The moment is shattered. Because, just as I speak, Seth jolts, his eyes blinking rapidly as he orientates himself. His hand flies from my waist like a palm from a boiling pot.

Seth be in La La Land no more.

"Mercy?" he questions, his voice still thick and gravelly, but lacking the drawn-out result of sleep. I guess I can't ignore him this time.

"Yeah."

"What are you doing in here?"

The question slams into my chest like a bucket of ice cubes—it's both painful and cold. I pull back from him slightly, his arm no longer halting my retreat. I don't disengage myself from him completely, because I can't help how much I love feeling his skin against mine. I prop myself on an elbow to get a clearer look at his face, but he just watches me with confusion written into his forehead.

"I'm not allowed to sleep in my bed?" I question, a little more heated than I'd intended.

"I didn't mean it like that," he clarifies with a roll of his eyes. "You were practically dead on the couch when I got home. I sort of expected you to sleep through the apocalypse with how heavy you were snoring."

Ah, yes. Just rub in my snoring problem. He used to do it all the time, which is why this moment is so strange. We're typically robotically civil to each other. We're polite but stiff. We don't make rude jokes with each other anymore. So, the fact that he's bringing up my snoring—and has a tight smirk playing at his lips as he does it—makes me think he's trying to lighten the mood. He'steasing me. I guess I should wake him up during his REM cycle more often because he's a lot more fun to be around.

"I don't snore," I deny, knowing with two-billion percent certainty that I most definitely do. I only know this because Emma recorded me snoring one night. I told her she'd edited the film, and though I'll never admit it to her, I know she didn't—because I've woken myself up with my own snores on more than one occasion.

"You do," he says, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn. "You send earthquakes to China with the amount of power you exert," he mumbles. "Like, it hurts my sinuses just to listen to you sometimes."

"Wow," I deadpan. "You sure know how to make a woman feel desirable."

"Do I?"

"Totally." I dramatically fling my hair over my shoulder, letting out a deep snort as I do so. "I feel beyond sexy right now." I start chuckling at my own stupid joke, not realizing that Seth is watching me with the intensity of Superman's laser vision.

"You are."

My laughter gets caught in my throat and I'm forced to choke it back once as I swing my gaze toward him. He's still looking at me, entirely unashamed. It wasn't a question. He stated that as a fact. Why doesn't he regret saying it?

"You didn't mean to say that, did you?" I ask, offering him a free get-out-of-jail card, but he doesn't take it. Instead, he just shakes his head from side to side.

"I did," he tells me. "I meant to say it. You're stunning. There. I said it again."

"Why?" I question, totally lost as to why he's saying all of this right now.

"Why do I think you're stunning, or why am I telling you that I think you're stunning?"

I clear my throat, suddenly achingly aware that I'm not fully dressed. I didn't think he'd wake up, so I wasn't concerned about wearing only my undergarments to sleep in. My stomach lays bare against his. No wonder he thinks I'm stunning right now. He's a man. He has eyes. This has nothing to do with love or trying to make our relationship work. This has to do with one thing, and one thing only: lust.

"Why are you telling me?" I ask after a moment. I'm watching him closely, the streetlights from outside penetrating the thin curtains in a way that illuminates every crease and twitch of Seth's face.

"Because it's the truth. Because I wanted to say it." He pauses. "What?" He shoots a hand into the air as he speaks, like he's trying to drive his point in harder with meaningless hand gestures. "Am I not allowed to compliment my wife?"

"Sure," I say with a shrug, pushing myself up into a seated position and then twisting around to face him. "If I was really your wife. For the past several months, I've only been your wife on paper. If you truly wanted me to know I was stunning, you could change that. We could be real again..."

Like I said, I'm feeling bold. And so, in the moment, and with the protection of the shadows of night hovering around us, I basically throw myself at my husband. Not even three seconds pass before his hand is slowly creeping around my exposed stomach and pulling me down beside him. His eyes roam over my face, taking in every aspect of my features as if he hasn't had a drink in ages. We're so close that I can almost taste the mint on his breath. He's taking his time, being cautious, and then just when I think he's going to make a move, he's pushing himself away from me and sitting up.

"I can't do this," he mumbles into his palms as he rubs his hands over his face. "I can't."

"Why?" I ask, startled by his sudden rejection. I nearly scramble to sit up, scooting myself a few inches away from Seth as I gaze at his ink-covered back. His strength is evident, muscles flexing with each movement as he runs his hands from his face and into his hair, but he doesn't turn around.

"I'll just take the couch again," he offers, his words soft as if he thinks he's being considerate by letting me have the bed to myself. He slides his legs out from under the covers and grabs his t-shirt from the floor.

"Seth," I say, my voice hard—demanding. I watch him dress as I work to gather my strength. "Why?"

He's already headed towards the door, but he stops at my question.

"Because," he says, turning slightly to look at me, "I refuse to use you."

And then he's gone, and I'm suddenly more alone than I've ever been.