It's just past midnight.
My husband has kicked the covers down to his knees, again. I have quietly pulled them back up to my collarbone, again.
The bedroom fan is pointed at a 40-degree angle that satisfies neither of us.
The thermostat is set to a temperature we both privately resent. We have been doing this dance for 6 years and we have never once discussed it openly.
This is, I'm told, a fairly common arrangement.
I'm the cold one. I sleep in socks year-round and own a robe with a hood.
He's the hot one. He's been called a human radiator since 2018 and once threw the duvet onto the floor in July and slept on top of the sheet like a man who had given up on civilization.
We have tried everything a reasonable couple tries. The lighter summer duvet. The heavier winter duvet. The brief separate-duvet experiment, which lasted four nights before we both decided it felt like sleeping with a roommate. A fan aimed at only his side of the bed. A weighted blanket I begged for, which he sweated through within twenty minutes.
Summer was a diplomatic crisis. Winter was a ceasefire with conditions. Spring and autumn were the only seasons in which we both pretended to be asleep at the same time.
I want to say we had a heart-to-heart about it. We did not. What happened was I was on my phone at 11pm one Sunday googling "blanket for hot sleeper" while he sweated next to me.