Thinking

The apartment felt too quiet without her.

I wandered back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, still rumpled from where we’d slept. The memory of how she looked that morning—shirt riding up, bulge pressing forward, body firm and radiant—played on repeat in my head.

I didn’t know what I was feeling.

I was turned on. That much was obvious. But I was also off balance. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Rachel had always been the sexy, soft one. I was the protector. The strong one. But now…

I looked at my hands, my chest, my body.

I still looked like me. But next to her, this morning, I hadn’t felt dominant. I’d felt—

Small.

Not physically. Not yet. But emotionally. Like I was watching something pass me, gaining momentum, and I couldn’t catch up.

I made coffee, aimlessly scrolling my phone. But I couldn’t stop thinking about how her fingers gripped my waist when she kissed me goodbye. Strong fingers. Confident.

I spent most of the morning cleaning. Folding laundry. Tidying the kitchen. It gave me something to do with my hands, at least.

When I walked past the full-length mirror in the hallway, I stopped.

I turned to the side, lifted my shirt.

I still looked good. Swimmer’s body. Flat abs. But I didn’t look powerful anymore. Not compared to what I’d seen in her eyes this morning.

She had something new now.

And I wanted to understand it.

The hours passed slow. I tried to distract myself with work, a quick workout, another cup of coffee. But it was like her presence still lingered in the room—on the couch cushions, in the sheets, in the scent of her shampoo in the bathroom.

By the time the clock crept past five, I was sitting by the window, restless.

Waiting for her to come home.