I’m humming softly to myself as I flipp the steak one last time, the sizzle grounding and satisfying. The spicy rice was already done, fluffed and fragrant, steam curling upward like it knew it was meant to be noticed.
I’m wearing an oversized button-up shirt, clearly not mine, sleeves rolled up, hem brushing my thighs.
Comfortable. Unapologetic. Chosen for no one but myself.
At least, that’s whats what I’m telling myself.
The door opened with familiar noise, boots kicked off in the hallway. I didn’t have to turn to know who it was, the energy shifted immediately. Warm. Lived-in. Summer-soaked.
“Smells incredible,” sarah said, voice relaxed, amused. “Is that steak?”
I glanc over my shoulder and smiled. “Spicy rice too. You timed it perfectly.” i awnser
There was a pause. Then arms slid around my waist from behind, solid and warm, followed by an exaggerated inhale against my neck.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “Dinner smells good. But you smell better.”
Before I could respond, there was a light, playful smack against my butt, more teasing than anything. I yelped, laughing.
“Hey!,” I said, squirming just enough to make my point. “If you’re going to do that, you should be ready to fully commit.”
The laugh behind me was low, promising.
“Oh. I plan to.” Sarah added
The next thing I knew, I was lifted effortlessly onto the kitchen table, utensils clinking in protest. I barely had time to catch my breath before our lips met, slow, confident, unhurried. The heat of the day still clung to Sarahs skin, transferring instantly, making me shiver.
Dinner faded into the background.
The kiss deepened, hands steady and sure, laughter slipping between breaths. It wasn’t frantic, it was familiar, playful, full of the kind of closeness that came from knowing exactly how far to go without saying it out loud.
One hand holding my face, the other gripping my tight pushing them open. I was ready to become the meal.
When we finally pulled apart, foreheads resting together, both flushed and smiling, the smell of burnt steak was unmistakably stronger than before.
I laughed softly. “I think we may have overcooked the steak.”
“Worth it,” came as a reply.
“I think we earned dessert,” I added, eyes bright.
“Dessert?”
Sarahs eyebrows raised out of pure curiosity.
I hopped down, crossed the kitchen, and opened the fridge with a flourish. Inside sat a small banana cake, half glossy with chocolate, half plain.
The reaction was immediate.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
We sat together at the counter, sharing bites, fingers brushing, chocolate smudges everywhere. Lazy kisses followed, unhurried and warm, the kind that felt like punctuation rather than escalation.
Later, the shower steamed the room, water warm against skin, laughter echoing softly,
easy, affectionate, content.
Just another night.
Exactly the kind I loved the most.