Sunday Morning Roy-mance

Elaine padded into the kitchen barefoot, the tile cool against her soles, and tugged her robe tighter around herself.

Silky navy-blue satin, an anniversary gift from Mark the year prior. It hung loosely over the pale lilac camisole and matching shorts she'd slipped into after Roy had finally fallen asleep on top of her like a felled tree. Her muscles were pleasantly sore in places she hadn't thought about in years—hips, thighs, a tender pulsing low in her belly—and every stretch felt like a reminder of the day she and Roy had just lived.

Morning light filtered through the kitchen window, wide bands of gold spilling across the counter and glimmering against the chrome kettle. The world outside was bright and crisp, the kind of spring Sunday that smelled like dew and new beginnings, but the sunshine inside the house felt warmer—warmer because he was there with her.

From down the hall came the unmistakable thunder-snort-croak of Roy beginning another snoring cycle, and she laughed aloud, soft and private. Mark's snoring had been neat and sharp, predictable—a nasal trumpet blast every six seconds. Roy's sounded like someone trying to chainsaw a wet log.

She adored it.

Not the sound itself. No one could adore that. But she loved what it meant.

A man in her house. No, not just any man.

A partner.

Someone to share mornings with, with messy hair and sleep lines on his cheeks.

She cracked another egg, slid it into the bowl with its yolk brethren, and whisked slowly, letting her whole body move with the motion.

Sundays used to be days that dragged. Laundry. Lesson plans. Mark gone at golf. Silence settling like dust.

Yesterday had rewritten the script.

Three rounds (three!) and she wasn't sure she remembered where one ended and the next began. The only marker she had was Roy's powerful orgasms, filling her up in a way she had missed dearly since Mark had gone. Her own climaxes had been many. She'd lost track somewhere around the second time she'd climbed off of him, his hands slipping off of her hips, legs trembling.

Afterward, they had collapsed, tangled in sheets and limbs, sweat cooling on their skin. Laughter had poured out of both of them at the absurd idea of how ridiculously enthusiastic they had both been. And then she'd drifted off with her cheek on his chest and his hand resting lazily over her ribs, thumb sweeping tiny circles like he couldn't stop touching her even in sleep.

It had been a perfect afternoon.

Later, they'd woken starving. Two ravenous beasts scavenging the kitchen. A haul of leftover pasta and garlic bread had revealed itself. All thoughts of manners aside, they shared straight from the pan at the counter, talking and teasing and bumping hips like teenagers.

Then, wanting to spend more time together but both aware that they needed a change of pace from the bedroom, an evening of television. Curled together on the couch under an old knitted blanket, Elaine could feel the warmth of his body against hers.

She'd let him pick.

Schitt's Creek was his choice, saying he felt like he "needed something cozy and low-stakes." Elaine had nearly melted when he laughed so hard at David's melodramatic eye rolls that he snorted wine out his nose.

They hadn't sat politely. It wasn't that kind of night.

Her right leg draped over his lap, his hand resting warm on her thigh, occasionally sliding up and giving her a squeeze. Her head leaned on his shoulder, sometimes his head leaning on hers. Little touches, absent-minded, instinctive. She couldn't remember a time where she'd felt so close to a man. Even Mark, her husband, her first love, had held himself distant when doing mundane things like watching television. Roy, on the other hand, seemed appreciative of every second of her presence, even in the mundane.

By the time they'd gone to bed for the second time that night, Elaine felt like she'd known Roy forever.

She added flour to the bowl, then milk, stirring slowly with a wooden spoon while the sun tracked higher, the light warming her forearms. Her kitchen smelled like life; coffee grounds she'd measured earlier, pancakes waiting to happen, and the faint residue of last night's garlic.

Tonight, Evan and Claire would be here. Each with their partners, filling her dining room with chatter and clashing opinions and probably a stack of shoes by the door. She pictured the roast chicken already. Salted, stuffed with lemon halves, slathered with butter and rosemary, so vivid she could almost smell it.

And dessert. Apple crisp? Maybe Roy could help peel.

She hoped Evan behaved himself.

It was no secret that her son did not approve of her new boyfriend. Yesterday, in the van, he'd made himself perfectly clear that Roy was, in Evan's mind, an intruder, not welcome in the family. He'd always been that way; a headstrong territorial young man who pushed back whenever he felt someone had made a change that he didn't approve of.

Well, Elaine didn't need him to adore Roy. But she needed him to be civil.

Cordial.

No interrogations, no suspicious glares, no calling him "this guy," speaking about Roy as if he wasn't in the room.

Roy was a part of her life now. And if Evan didn't want to create a schism between them, he was going to have to learn to accept her boyfriend as a part of the family.

Rinsing off her hands in the sink, she turned, catching sight of the living room wall. Specifically, the framed photo of her and Mark from Banff, years earlier. She walked closer, still drying her fingers absently on her robe.

In the photo, they stood against a lake so blue it looked painted, wind messing with her hair while Mark grinned with his arm slung around her waist. She remembered the day: icy water on her toes, Mark complaining about the crowds, then making up for it by buying her hot chocolate and wrapping his jacket around her shoulders.

A good day.

One of many.

A good day in a good life.

Elaine exhaled, the ache gentle but real.

She missed him.

Would probably miss him forever.

But as she mixed the batter by hand, her wrist moving in easy circles, she realized something quietly miraculous: thinking about Mark didn't dim what she felt now. Missing didn't mean that she had to stop living.

Her eyes drifted to the empty space next to the frame, a blank patch of wall.

That's where Roy and I will go, she thought, not startled by the certainty.

Not rushed.

Just right.

She slid bacon into the hot pan, the fat sizzling instantly, little pops of oil rising in the air. The scent filled the house; salty, smoky, irresistible.

Across the house, the snoring broke off abruptly, followed by a pause. Then a muffled groan as someone, someone large, stretched limbs that had clearly been used well the day before.

Footsteps shuffled on the hardwood. Slow, heavy, half-asleep.

Elaine felt a ridiculous flutter in her belly, like she was sixteen and about to be caught cooking breakfast for her crush.

Roy appeared in the doorway, rubbing at his eyes with one fist, wearing nothing but his boxers from last night—navy cotton, slightly crooked on his hips. His hair stood up in wild tufts, one side flattened where her head had rested on it for hours.

He sniffed the air once. Paused. Sniffed again, exaggerated and dramatic.

"Tell me that's bacon," he said, voice gravelly and morning-rough.

Elaine turned, spatula raised like a wand, and grinned at him.

"It might be," she said brightly. "Depends. Did you earn it yesterday?"

He blinked once, then grinned back. An expression slow, warm, sleepy, and so full of affection she felt it all the way down to her toes.

"Oh," he murmured, stepping into the kitchen, still waking up. "I definitely earned it."

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, just a brush of lips, beard scratchy, skin hot from sleep, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

The pan hissed, the sun warmed her back, and she was content in the knowledge that she wasn't cooking for one, but for two. That with Roy around, even with the heartbreak she was carrying, Elaine felt like her house wasn't just a place she lived in.

It felt like home.