It's dark by the time Jean comes home. The key turns in the lock. Clack.

The house is dark, there isn't a single light on. Deep, soft breaths reach his ears, and he enters the living-room. There she is, long hair spread on a pillow, both hands set neatly by her face, and ankles crossed. She looks as cute as a little kitten.

Raindrops hit the window mercilessly, and their trails make him think of her face earlier that day. He sighs his regret quietly and moves to spread a blanket on her. He really shouldn't make her cry as often as he does.