He comes in late, quietly; he tries not to wake her. He slips in the door and makes his way down the hall in the dark. She hears the water running and she wakes. She looks at the clock. It's late, again. She knows he's home.
She waits until she hears the shower door shut. Then she slips down the hall and peeks in the door. The steam fills the room but she can still make him out in the shadows, his dark shoulder length hair wet, his hands scrubbing himself with soap. She sees the red streams running down his body into the drain slowly turning to pink. She looks him over for injuries but finds none. The blood isn't his. She is relieved. She waits until the water flows clear, then she slips back into their bed.
She hears him leave the shower and come down the hall. He slips into bed beside her and presses up against her back, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her cheek softly, "Sorry, had to work late," he whispers quietly in her ear and hugs her body to his. She doesn't want to know what he does.