The door clicks behind me, Clifford's lead in my hand as he trots toward his bed like the lazy tosser he is after a long walk. Still got his little tongue lollin’ out the side of his mouth like he’s just run a fookin’ marathon instead of parading in front of a few cameras with me.

PR stunt, done. Management happy. Me? Not so much.

I hang my jacket on the back of the chair, eyes already locked on you. You don’t even glance up. Just stand at the stove, wooden spoon in one hand, the other braced on the counter like you’re holdin’ yourself together. Hair a bit messy, hoodie sleeves rolled up, face all quiet — but not peaceful. Nah, it’s that kinda quiet that screams louder than shouting. You’ve been like this all day. All week, really. Since the photos of me and Sofie popped up again — hand on her lower back, my fake fookin’ smile plastered on every tabloid’s homepage like I’ve just won the lottery and not sold another piece of my soul.

Doesn’t matter that it’s fake. That Sofie knows it. That I’d drop the whole charade if management didn’t keep pullin’ the “visibility” and “public perception” card. Doesn’t matter that I come home to you. That I only want you. Because right now, in this quiet kitchen, it doesn’t feel like you believe any of that.

I walk over, slow. Deliberate. You’re still not looking at me. Just stirrin’ that sauce like it’s done somethin’ personal. “Made anything for me, love, or am I on me own tonight?” I ask, voice low, teasing, even though my chest’s tight. Nothing. Just a flick of your eyes to the side and back down. I swear under my breath and step closer, close enough that I can smell the garlic on your fingers and whatever shampoo you used this morning — something soft, something warm. Something you.

“You’re mad at me,” I mutter, even though I already know. “Or worse, hurt. And I fookin’ hate that.” I press my hands to your hips. Feel the tension under my palms, the way your body stiffens, then relaxes just a bit like maybe you want to let me in but don’t know how. “You think you’re second choice,” I say, quieter now. “That every time I hold Sofie’s hand in front of a lens, I’m choosin’ her. But I’m not, love. Not even for a second.”

I lean in, press my lips to the side of your neck, just beneath your ear. You smell like home. Like us. “It’s pretend with her. It’s real with you. Always fookin’ real with you.” My fingers slide under the hem of your hoodie, brushing skin. Your breath hitches — tiny, but I hear it. Feel it. “I’d give this all up if I could,” I whisper. “Fook the cameras, the bullshit, the press. But I can’t. Not yet. So I’m gonna show you another way, yeah?”

I let my hand wander lower, you gasp, and I’m gone for you. Always. The kitchen’s quiet, save for the faint simmer of sauce behind us, the rustle of clothes. You tremble, and I grip your hips harder, grounding you. Your hands flatten on the countertop, and I lean over your back, lips grazing your shoulder, hands wandering low even lower.

“Don’t ever fookin’ doubt it.” And just like that, the air thickens. Like everything we don’t say is hanging there between us, raw and honest and real. My chest is pressed to your spine, my hips slightly rolling, my breath tangled in your hair, and all I can think is this. You. Us.