She comes out of the bathroom in steam, her skin warm and glowing. She is wearing the shirt I made her from one of mine—the one I ruined on purpose because she said my shirts were softer than hers.
The sleeves are uneven, and the shirt's hem stops high up her thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination. The neckline slips off one shoulder, exposing that smooth curve between her collarbone and neck—the place I always kiss without thinking.
She stretches, yawns, and walks barefoot to the kitchen like she’s not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She's dressed in something stupid, but she makes it look perfect.
I’m in sweatpants, no shirt, tea in one hand, and a stupid grin on my face.
This is my favorite thing. Her, post-bath, high and relaxed, smelling like her mango body wash and weed, padding barefoot across our apartment like a sleepy goddess with a mission.
Cupcakes. Banana cupcakes, specifically. Her specialty.
She’s already in the kitchen, swaying to her baking playlist playing from the speakers, hips catching the rhythm like she’s underwater.
Our cats, Mocha and Marmalade, are already in position. Mocha’s perched on the windowsill, judging us like always. Marmalade’s under the table, stretching dramatically like he’s preparing for a runway. The whole flat smells like weed, overripe bananas, and something sweet that hasn’t even started baking yet.
“You’re watching me again,” she says without turning around.
“I’m always watching you.”
“Creep.”
“Wife.”
She snorts. “Dreamer.”
She doesn’t like anyone in her kitchen when she’s baking, so I stay on my side — at the island, out of the way, tea in hand, watching her like she’s a show I paid for.
She mashes the bananas like she’s mad at them. Her brows pinched in concentration. There’s flour on her thigh already, and she’s only just started. Her braids swing as she moves, tied in a high bun, a few stubborn strands brushing her neck.
“You’re using too much flour,” I say, knowing exactly what I’m doing.
She turns slowly, very slowly, and gives me the look.
“Talk again,” she says, “and no cupcakes for you.”
I throw my hands up. “Forgive me, Chef.”
“That’s more like it.”
She continues, cracking eggs, hips swaying again.
“Why are you always staring like that?” she asks, her back still to me as she went about her baking.
“Because you’re beautiful and I have eyes.”
She turns to look at me biting her lip, trying to hide her smile.
“You’re lucky i’m in love with you, that’s why i can let corny shit like this slide” she says, turning back to her mixing bowl.
She starts mixing the batter, licking the spoon, then dipping a finger in and walking over to me — slow, teasing. She holds it up.
“Taste.”
I take her hand gently and kiss her finger instead of licking it. Then her wrist. Then her cheek. Then I finally licked the batter off her finger.
“Not what I meant,” she whispers, grinning.
“Too late.”
I pull her in and kiss her again — a real one this time, soft and slow. She tastes like weed and sugar and home. She kisses me back, fingers curling into my hair.
“Marmalade’s watching,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“He’s learning from the best.”
She laughs, kisses me one more time — quick, like a full stop — then turns back to her bowl.
“Timer’s ticking. No distractions.”
She slides the cupcake tray into the oven, bending forward just slightly. The shirt rides up. My breath catches.
It takes everything in me not to get up and press myself against her. But I remember how drained she was when she got home. She needed to move slow tonight. Needed this ritual, this softness, this space. And later? I’d give her the kind of tenderness that doesn’t come with instructions.
She sets the timer on the oven and turns around, walking back to me, mesmerising me with her hips.
She sits on my lap, arms around my neck, her weight settling on me like she belongs there.
“You look like you’ve been waiting all day for me to do this,” she says softly into my ear.
“I’ve been waiting all my life for you to do this.”
I feel her roll her eyes before she pulls back, locking eyes with me, smiling hard.
“You’re so dramatic.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” she whispers, brushing her nose against mine.
And then we kiss again. Longer this time. Softer. My hands slide under the hem of her shirt as her body melts into mine like she’s always belonged here. Like she’s always been mine.
We pull apart just enough to breathe. The music is still playing. The rain outside has picked up, tapping softly against the window. The cupcakes are baking, and the cats are dozing.
“I think I just fell in love with you again,” I whisper, my forehead on hers.
She laughs. “You fall in love with me every five minutes.”
“Exactly. That’s how I know it’s real.”
She kisses me again.
The oven beeps.
Neither of us moves.
The cupcakes can wait.
I’ve been getting into my short stories bag. Subscribe to read more <3
Awwwnnnn
This was a lovely read fr😌