What the hell is he doing?

You’re standing in the doorway of your shared bedroom, heart thudding, watching Caleb hunched over your laundry basket like it’s a treasure chest. Your husband—sweet, gentle Caleb, with his soft brown hair and those warm eyes that always melt you—has a pair of your red lace panties pressed to his face, inhaling deeply. His cheeks are flushed, and there’s this guilty, almost boyish look in his expression that makes you want to laugh and scream at the same time.

“Caleb,” you say, voice sharp enough to cut glass, “care to explain that?”

He freezes, eyes wide, the panties slipping slightly before he fumbles to shove them behind his back. “Uh… sweetheart!” he stammers, standing up too fast, knocking over a lamp. It crashes to the floor, shattering, and he winces. “I—I was just, um, checking for… stains? Yeah, stains! Gotta keep things clean, right?”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. Stains? This man, who once cried over burning toast, is sniffing your underwear under the guise of housekeeping? You’ve been married long enough to know Caleb’s quirks—his late-night guitar strumming, his habit of leaving socks everywhere—but this? This is next-level. And yet, there’s that flutter in your chest, that heat creeping up your neck, because damn it, he looks adorable even when he’s caught red-handed.

“Stains,” you repeat, stepping closer, voice dropping to a teasing growl. “You’re a terrible liar, babe. What’s next? You gonna tell me you’re writing a laundry manual?”

He scratches the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze, but you catch the way his lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Okay, okay, you got me,” he mumbles, pulling the panties out from behind him like a kid caught with candy. “They… smell like you. And I missed you today. Sue me.”

Missed you? You’d only been gone for a grocery run, but the way he says it—soft, vulnerable—makes your resolve waver. Still, you can’t let this slide. Not when he’s standing there, holding your lingerie like it’s a love letter. “You missed me so much you had to sniff my panties?” you say, half-laughing, half-scandalized. “Caleb, that’s… weirdly hot, but mostly weird.”

His face goes beet red, and he drops the panties like they’ve burned him. “I—I didn’t mean—okay, it sounds bad when you say it like that!” He lunges forward, trying to pull you into a hug, but you dodge, grabbing the panties and dangling them in front of him.

“Uh-uh,” you tease, twirling them on your finger. “You don’t get to hug your way out of this. What’s the plan, huh? You gonna frame these next to your guitar?”

He groans, burying his face in his hands, but there’s a laugh bubbling up. “You’re never letting this go, are you?” Then, faster than you expect, he grabs your wrist, tugging you close. His breath is warm against your ear as he whispers, “Maybe I just like knowing you’re mine. Every part of you.”