Going home

The apartment is dark when you come in. The city hums faintly through the cracked window, the quiet kind that presses on your ears after a night full of voices and music and laughter that went a little too far.

You set your purse on the counter and just stand there, keys still in your hand. For a moment, you can almost smell the cologne lingering on your jacket — or maybe it’s just the perfume of the restaurant clinging to you. Either way, it feels foreign.

Tom stirs on the couch, blinking himself awake. “Hey,” he says, voice thick with sleep. “You’re home.”

You nod, trying to smile. “Yeah. It went… long.”

He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “That good, huh?” There’s a half-grin in his voice, teasing, easy. “You look wiped. Guess that means you got plenty of material.”

“Something like that,” you say, your voice thinner than you mean it to be. You move toward the hallway, **** for a shower, for the quiet hiss of water to wash away the night.

Tom stretches, watching you go. “I’ll make coffee in the morning,” he mumbles. “You can tell me all about it.”

You pause in the doorway, glancing back. He looks so small there in the half-light, hair sticking up, a soft smile still on his lips — trusting. The word lands hard in your chest.

“Sure,” you whisper. “Yeah. I’ll tell you everything.”

But when you close the bathroom door, you don’t turn on the light right away. You just stand there, listening to the pipes creak, the walls settle. The reflection in the dark mirror stares back at you — the reporter, the wife, the woman who’s supposed to know who she is.

Only right now, she doesn’t.

Morning comes in pieces — the soft click of the coffeemaker, the faint sound of traffic through the window, Tom humming under his breath as if nothing’s changed.

You linger in the bedroom longer than usual, dressing slower than you need to, staring at the clothes in your suitcase as if they might tell you what kind of woman you’re supposed to be today.

When you finally step into the kitchen, the smell of coffee greets you first. Then Tom looks up from his mug, his face lighting up like it always does. “Morning, superstar.”

You smile, but it feels fragile. “Morning.”

He gestures to the counter. “I made you the good stuff — with that fancy oat milk you like.”

“Thanks,” you say, taking the cup. You sip it just to have something to do with your hands.

“So,” he starts, easy grin returning, “how was last night? You never texted.”

You hesitate, searching for the simplest truth that won’t hurt. “It was… interesting. Complicated, maybe. He’s not what I expected.”

Tom leans against the counter, studying you. “Complicated good or complicated bad?”

You look down at the swirling coffee. “A little of both.”

He chuckles. “Well, you are writing about dating in your twenties. I guess it wouldn’t be much of an article if everyone was just nice and normal.”

You **** a small laugh. “Yeah. Nice and normal doesn’t sell.”

Tom tilts his head. “You okay?”

You look up then, catching the concern in his eyes — genuine, unguarded — and something tightens in your chest. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Just tired. It was a long night.”

He nods, clearly wanting to believe you. “Well, you’re doing great, Claire. Really. I’m proud of you.”

That word again — proud. It lands heavier than it should. You nod, swallowing the knot in your throat, forcing a smile. “Thanks, Tom. That means a lot.”

He reaches over and squeezes your hand before heading to get ready for work, humming the same tune as before.

When he’s gone, the apartment feels too quiet again. You stand there for a long time, the coffee cooling between your palms, wondering when exactly the truth got so blurry — and how much longer you can keep pretending you’re fine.

You return to the bustling newspaper office, still feeling slightly disoriented from last night's events. As you make your way through the maze of desks and computers, Mike notices your arrival with a friendly wave.

"Morning, sunshine!" he greets enthusiastically as he takes the coffee you offer him gratefully. "I hope you managed to get some juicy details last night."

You hesitate for a moment before deciding that it's time to come clean about what happened between you and Chris - even though admitting your actions will undoubtedly make you feel ****. Taking a deep breath, you prepare yourself for the conversation ahead.

"Actually, Mike," you begin tentatively, choosing your words carefully so as not to overshare but also ensuring that he understands the gravity of last night's encounter. "Last night was... intense. Despite his cocky attitude and repugnant politics, there was something about being close to him that felt like a ****."

Mike chuckles at this candid admission, clearly amused by your honesty. "Well," he says with a grin, "I guess you can't deny that journalism has its thrilling moments!"

You nod in agreement, feeling slightly embarrassed but also relieved to have shared your experience so far without judgment from Mike. As you continue explaining the unexpected emotional connections and revelations that occurred during last night's encounter, you make sure to mention how Chris's cum still lingers inside you - a physical reminder of the intensity of their interaction. Mike laughs, looking into the middle distance, like he's imagining what had occurred.

By the time you finish talking, Mike’s leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“So let me get this straight,” he says. “He told you that women ‘used to know their place,’ and you still got him to open up about his family business, his investments, and the god complex that keeps him up at night?”

You rub your temples. “Mike, he wasn’t shy about any of it. I didn’t even have to dig. It just kept coming. Like he wanted me to print it all.”

“That’s perfect,” Mike says, clapping his hands together once. “Exactly the kind of guy people love to hate — polished, confident, totally unaware of how awful he sounds. Readers eat that up.”

You stare at him. “It’s not funny. He said things that made my skin crawl.”

“Which means you did your job,” he replies smoothly. “You made him comfortable enough to show who he really is. That’s gold, Claire. People don’t read exposés about the good ones — they read about the ones who make them angry.”

You shift in your chair, trying not to sound defensive. “But I don’t want this to be a hit piece. I’m supposed to understand these men, not humiliate them.”

Mike waves that off. “And you will. That’s the beauty of it — nuance, humanity, but with a little fire underneath. You’re not here to make anyone look good. You’re here to make them real.”

You study him, his eyes bright with ambition, maybe a little pride. He believes in the work, sure — but also in what it can do for the paper. For him. For you.

He notices your hesitation and softens his tone. “Look, you’ve got something rare, kid. You draw people out. They trust you. That’s not manipulation — that’s talent. Don’t let guilt trick you into thinking you crossed a line.”

You fold your hands in your lap. “It still feels like I did.”

He leans forward, his voice lowering. “If you’re not at least a little uncomfortable, you’re not digging deep enough.”

The room goes quiet for a beat, filled only by the hum of the fluorescent light.

Finally, you nod. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll start writing it up.”

“Good.” Mike smiles again, already back to business. “Just don’t lose the rawness. That’s what makes it sing.”

As you stand to leave, his voice follows you. “Oh — and make sure your next one has a hook like this. Readers love moral tension.”

You pause at the doorway, forcing a small smile. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Apparently so do editors.”