The wheels hit the runway, and the jolt sends a rush through me. He still doesn’t know. And for a little while longer, that secret is mine. While we taxi, I thumb open my phone and type a quick message—not coy, not careful.
ME:I can’t wait to feel you coming inside me again.
I watch the screen for a beat, but there’s nothing. I lock my phone, shove it back into my bag, and tell myself he’s busy.
Instead, I flick over to Ansel’s thread.
ME:Landed. On my way to surprise D.
Ansel:Operation Touchdown Time is happening?
ME:Keep it in your pants, Slay Muffin.
Ansel:Can’t, that’s the point of touchdown.
Finally, I step off the plane into the terminal’s stale chill…
The place hums with rolling suitcases and gate calls, everyone rushing somewhere else. I take a long breath, then push toward the exit.
Once in the rideshare and on my way home, my leg bounces with pent-up energy. The city blurs by outside, all cold glass and low clouds, and I try to picture the moment I walk through the door. How he’ll drop whatever he’s doing. How his hands will find me before the door’s even shut.
Except my phone’s still quiet. No reply to my text. No little typing bubble. I tell myself it’s fine—maybe he’s in the shower, maybe his phone’s dead—but the thought slides around in my chest like a loose bead.
Traffic thickens near the river, and my driver mutters at a red light. I check the time. Ansel’s last message still sits there on my screen, dumb and cheerful—operation Touchdown. I almost type back, almost make another joke, but my fingers stop halfway. My nails press into my palm instead.
By the time the car turns onto my street, the sky’s gone a dull slate. I spot the familiar outline of our building and feel my pulse quicken, but it’s not all excitement now. It’s… something else.
When the car stops, I thank the driver, step out with my bag, and head for the lobby. My keycard clicks green, and the elevatorhums under my feet as it rises. By the third floor, my mouth’s gone dry.
And then I’m standing at our door, my hand on the knob, listening. The lock turns smoothly, the way it always does, and I slip inside without a sound. The apartment is warm, a little too warm, and I set my keys and bag on the entry table, letting the leather straps slide from my shoulder.
That smell hits me almost immediately—not the sharp, clean cedar I’m used to, but something softer, sweeter. Wildflowers and honey. It clings to the air like it's been here a while; I can’t place the scent. I tell myself it’s nothing. Maybe a candle Ansel was burning before her trip. Maybe a neighbor’s perfume caught on the draft.
I kick off my shoes, my steps instinctively quiet. The faint hum of music drifts from deeper inside, too low to place. My eyes sweep the apartment automatically, taking mental inventory: the mail stacked by the counter, the throw blanket rumpled on the couch, and a wine glass on the counter. Ansel must have left it out before her trip. I don’t stop to check if it’s clean, just slide past it, my pulse already a beat ahead of me.
The bedroom door is cracked, just enough for a strip of warm light to spill across the floor. I push it open—and the world tilts.
A woman with long brown hair is straddling Donovan, her knees digging into the mattress on either side of him, his hands gripping her hips. His head is tipped back, mouth parted, that low sound he only makes when I’ve got my mouth on him.
I can’t breathe.
Her hair falls forward, catching the light, the dark silk of it swaying with each deliberate roll of her hips. His fingers slide up her spine, spreading wide over her back, dragging her closer, closing the gap between them. The rhythm between them is slow, almost reverent, but there’s an urgency in the way his hips drive up to meet hers, in the way their breaths stutter andcatch in the same uneven pattern. They aren’t fucking; they are making love.
The faint slap of skin on skin syncs with the dull roar in my ears. I should move, should say something, should do something, but my feet are rooted, my eyes locked like a bad car wreck I can’t look away from.
The scent of wildflowers and honey floods the room, thick and suffocating, tangled with the musk of sweat. A bottle of wine sits open on the nightstand, deep red pooling in the bottom of two glasses—one of them tilted on its side, bleeding into the wood.
It’s a kaleidoscope of too much and not enough: the creak of the mattress, the way his hands slip into her hair and drag her down into a frenzied kiss. His lips break from hers just long enough to rasp against her ear,“Damn it, baby… You fit me so perfectly. You’re mine.”
Every touch, every sound says this isn’t a mistake he made. He’s exactly where he wants to be.
The air is molten, too hot for December, heat radiating from them in waves. The headboard gives a soft, rhythmic tap against the wall, matched by the raw, animal sound that tears free from his chest—the one that always came right before he unraveled inside me.
Her back arches, a gasp tearing from her throat, his grip tightening, anchoring them together, holding her there through every shuddering breath. His shoulders strain, every line of him pulled taut, chasing it. I can taste the bile in the back of my throat, my pulse rushing so hard it blurs the edges of the room.
The breath rips from me before I can swallow it down. His head snaps toward the doorway. His eyes find mine, and for a split second, the world stills. Not guilt. Not love. Just the raw, unflinching shock of being caught mid-crime. She stills, too, her back rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, her hair clinging to her damp skin. The room hums with the leftovertremor of what they were doing, the sound of their breathing filling every inch of space between us. My pulse hammers in my ears, loud enough I almost miss the faint slide of his hands loosening on her hips, not to let her go, but to cover himself.
I can’t move. My gaze drags over every detail like I’m cataloging evidence—the smear of lipstick at the corner of his mouth, the twist of the sheets around his legs, the pale imprint of her nails scoring his shoulder. A bead of sweat slips down her spine, disappearing into the curve of her back. The room holds its breath with me. Wine. Wildflowers. The musk of their skin. It seeps into my lungs, thick and choking. The image brands itself into me, searing hot, an afterimage that will still be there when I close my eyes.
