I decide to make dinner later

The apartment smelled like garlic and roasted tomatoes by the time Rachel walked through the door. I’d gone full domestic—pasta boiling, sauce simmering, music playing low in the background. I liked surprising her when I had the time, and judging by the smile she gave me as she kicked off her heels, she appreciated it.

“You made dinner?”

“I make a mean spaghetti,” I said, tossing a towel over my shoulder.

She walked straight over and kissed me, slow and deep, her fingers tugging at my shirt. “You make a mean everything.”

We ate on the couch, plates in our laps, some dumb rom-com playing in the background. She laughed at all the wrong parts. I couldn’t stop staring at her. The way she curled up beside me, her head on my shoulder, her hand tracing idle lines on my thigh—it made the movie disappear.

By the time the credits rolled, our plates were forgotten on the table.

She climbed into my lap without saying a word, straddling me as her hands slid under my shirt. Her lips were on my neck, her hips grinding against mine, and just like that, we were lost again.

We made it to the bedroom—barely. Clothes hit the floor in a trail. She pushed me down onto the bed and climbed on top, her body arching as she rode me slow and deep. Her hair fell like a curtain around us, and I reached up, gripping her hips, guiding her rhythm.

It was different tonight. Not rough. Not rushed. Just… intense. Like she wanted to feel every inch of me. Like she needed it.

When we finally collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and sweat, she curled against my chest and pressed her lips to my collarbone. “Mmm. You’re so good to me.”

“Always,” I murmured.

We fell asleep like that, her head on my chest, my hand resting on her hip.

Sometime in the night, I stirred.

I couldn’t explain why—I just felt strange. The air in the room felt heavier, warmer. Rachel shifted beside me, her leg thrown over mine, her breathing deeper than usual. I could swear her body felt… firmer? Not muscular, not exactly. Just… denser. Her thigh against mine felt different.

I drifted back to sleep, chalking it up to nothing.

The next morning, sunlight spilled through the curtains. Rachel was already up, brushing her hair in front of the mirror in nothing but a pair of my boxers and one of my old tanks.

I blinked groggily. “Morning.”

She turned, smiling. “Hey, sleepy.”

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. She looked the same. Mostly. Her legs looked longer in that light, but maybe it was the way she stood. Her arms looked tighter, subtly defined, but she’d been working out more lately. Nothing crazy.

“You look good,” I said, stretching.

She smirked. “I always do.”

I laughed. “Not wrong.”

She turned back to the mirror, humming to herself.

Something in the air felt… different.

But I couldn’t place it.

Not yet.