When he only calls you “good girl” in the dark—he’s hiding something behind those words. It slips out like a secret, rough around the edges, when the lights are off and the world outside fades to nothing but the hum of the air conditioner. In the daylight, it’s “honey” or “babe,” casual and easy, but here, in the quiet dark, it’s different. The words stick to his tongue like he’s tasted something bitter, like he’s afraid to say them too loud in case they shatter.
You’ve tried to ask about it once, sunlight streaming through the kitchen window as he poured coffee. “Why do you only say that at night?” He’d choked on his sip, eyes darting to the clock like he was counting down to an escape. “Say what? Babe? Good grief, you’re hearing things.” But you know you’re not. You’ve felt the way his jaw tightens when it slips out, the way he pulls you closer afterward as if making up for something, as if the words themselves are a confession he can’t take back.
Maybe it’s vulnerability, the kind men like him bury under sports scores and bad jokes. Maybe “good girl” is the closest he can get to saying I see you without the risk of looking soft. Or maybe it’s a memory, a ghost from a past he doesn’t talk about, someone he once called the same thing in a different room, under a different sky. Whatever it is, it hangs in the dark between you, unspoken and heavy, until morning comes and he’s back to “honey,” like the night never happened. But you remember. You always do.