He comes home at a normal hour on a Tuesday and the normalcy of it is so disorienting that I look up from the laptop in shock.5:43 PM.The door is opening at a time when doors are supposed to open, the keys landing on the counter in the spot where keys are supposed to land, his jacket hung on the hook instead of thrown over a chair because he’s not rushing. He’s not checking his phone or mentally partitioning the next forty minutes into blocks that belong to other people. He’s just HOME, in the kitchen, at a human hour, walking past my chair toward the fridge with the unhurried stride of a man who has an evening ahead of him instead of a schedule.I grab his waistband as he passes.My fingers hook into the fabric before my brain has formed a plan, the wanting arriving in my hand before it arrives in my head, because I haven’t touched him without a clock running in weeks and his body is RIGHT HERE moving past me at a pace that doesn’t require efficiency. The proximity of him combined
Last Updated : 2026-07-18
LOGIN
