Normal

Breakfast happens with the imbalance still on them.

Adam comes back from the shower dressed. Shirt. Pants.

Lana is still naked at the stove, his cum drying on her thigh, a fresh leak she has not wiped, smiling at the pan like this is ordinary.

She plates eggs. She pours coffee. She sits across from him with nothing on and eats, and he looks at her the way a husband looks at a wife who just got fucked over the counter and is fine about it.

They talk about nothing. The train. A meeting. Whether they need milk. Under the table her knee touches his. She does not mention the rules. He does not mention his cum currently inside her. It is domestic in a way that should not work and does.

When he stands to leave, he kisses her. Not a peck. A real kiss, mouth soft, hand on her bare waist, long enough that she leans into it. Then he goes. The door shuts. Lana stands in the kitchen naked for another minute, smiling, then showers, dresses, and goes to work with the smile still on her face and the faint ache of him between her legs.

The day is a day. Spreadsheets. A gym bag she does not open. She does not text him anything filthy. He does not text her. Evening, they are home within a half hour of each other.

Dinner is uneventful on purpose. Pasta. Salad. They talk about work the way people who like each other talk about work. She tells a story about a coworker. He laughs. He tells her about a client who will not decide. She smiles into her glass.

They look, for the length of the meal, like a real couple. Just two people at a table who had a filthy morning and a normal day.

After, they do the dishes together. Her hip bumps his. He flicks water at her. She flicks it back.

The blanket comes out. They put on a movie neither of them will remember the plot of and sit on the couch under it, her legs over his, his arm along the back, close. She rests her head on his shoulder halfway through. He does not move it. The film ends. The credits roll. Neither of them reaches for another.

“Bed?” he says.

“Bed,” she says.

They go. The ordinary shuffle of a night that does not need to be a scene. She gets in. He gets in beside her. The lamp goes off. She fits against him because that is where she has been fitting. He lets her.

The day ends quietly.

Like people who are, for these hours, exactly what they have been pretending to be.