She opens her mouth to argue, then closes it, studying me. "Why?"
Because seeing you in clothes I bought for you does something to me on a primal level.
Because you’re my goddamn wife and I want to take care of you and our son.
Because it makes me feel good to do things for you.
"Because it's the right thing to do," I say instead.
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it slide.
And look at that.
I think that counts as progress.
Back at the house, I dump the shopping bags on her bed. She can deal with her new clothes. I've got dinner to handle.
We've fallen into an unexpected routine these past weeks. I cook dinner, she tries to help me clean up and does a shitty job, but I never tell her. We watch movies on the couch with that careful space between us that feels like miles.
Tonight, it's burgers from the grill, her newest craving, except she likes them with sweet and sour sauce instead of something normal like mayo or ketchup. I flip the patties, listening to her moving around the kitchen through the open patio door. She's humming something under her breath, probably not even aware she's doing it.
It feels domestic in the very best way.
"Five minutes," I call, closing the grill lid.
"Buns are ready," she calls back. "And I made that sauce you like."
I pause, struck by how easily we've slipped into this. How natural it feels to be making dinner together, planning for our son, building a life neither of us expected.
And when this is over, I know I don’t want to go back to how it was before.
I don’t want her to leave.
When I bring the burgers in, she's setting the table, wearing my flannel again and a pair of the new stretchy pants. Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she's stolen my socks. Again.
"You know, you could just ask if you want to borrow my clothes," I say, setting the plate of burgers on the table.
She grins, unrepentant. "Where's the fun in that? Besides, your stuff is more comfortable than mine."
"And here I thought you were just trying to drive me crazy."
The words slip out before I can stop them, loaded with more meaning than I intended. Her eyes meet mine, and for a second, there's a flash of something that makes my pulse spike.
"Is it working?" she asks, her voice lower than before.
Heat flares in my gut and my dick perks right the hell up. "What do you think?"
The air between us crackles with the tension that’s been brewing between us for months. Every second of these last four weeks feels like an eternity of wanting but not touching her. Four fucking weeks of this dance we’ve been doing around each other.
Four weeks of catching her eyes on my tattoos when she thinks I won't notice.
Four weeks of cold showers and jacking off with her name on my tongue as I come.
Four weeks of sleepless nights with only a wall between us.
Four weeks of dying to feel her skin under mine every second of every day.
Four weeks of pretending what we have is enough when we both know it was never going to be.
