They had barely made it through the front door before the weight of the day caught up with them. The bags from the mall sat forgotten by the stairs — his new clothes, her lingerie sets still wrapped in tissue.
The house felt larger without Martha in it, the silence deeper, the possibilities heavier. Kate had suggested dinner instead of rushing upstairs. Something normal. Something to ground them after the car, after the way his fingers had been inside her while she stroked him, after the raw, filthy pleasure of it all.
She cooked simply — pasta with garlic, olive oil, chili flakes, and fresh herbs from the small garden out back, a bottle of red wine breathing on the counter.
Jaenor helped without being asked, chopping garlic, stirring the pot, their bodies brushing in the kitchen in a way that felt both domestic and charged.
