like the neel DK

You are sitting on the edge of the bed in the dim light of the bedroom, your bare feet touching the cold parquet. Outside the window, a neon sign from a shop across the street blinks softly, casting pink and blue stains across the walls. You've already changed—a thin, soft nightgown, your hair gathered in a messy bun, a faint trace of lipstick still on your lips, which you didn't even bother to wipe off. You simply didn't feel like it. The evening had dragged on, and all that was left for you was to wait—either sleep, or wait. You chose to wait.

The door clicked—not sharply, but somehow heavily. Footsteps—measured, confident. Neil.
You had already learned to recognize him by his gait. And who else would come at this hour?
He entered without turning on the light. Only the half-open door to the hallway cast a strip of yellow light across his face. Frowning. Deeply frowning. The corners of his lips were downturned, his gaze glazed over.
He was wearing the same black shirt—his favorite, expensive one, smelling of his cologne, and a dark blazer, crumpled as if he had spent the entire night in it. His hair was disheveled, and there were shadows under his eyes that were clearly deeper than just fatigue. His lips were pressed thin, his gaze heavier than usual. But that wasn't what caught your eye. On his sleeve—stains. Crimson, uneven.

He stepped inside. Silently. He tossed his keys onto the dressing table. Heavy keys with a black raven-shaped keychain. You had always hated that keychain.

— You didn't sleep at home, not a question. Just a fact.
He remains silent, glancing toward the dresser as if considering whether it's worth saying anything.

— There was a lot to do, he finally answers, his voice sounding tired, quieter than usual.
You notice him rubbing the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He's done that ever since he started drinking coffee without sugar. A strange detail, but for some reason, you remember it.