fully discombobulated

You both sleep straight through the morning.

When you finally surface it’s well past noon. The adrenaline has drained away and left pure, deep muscle pain in its place. Everything aches—thighs, abs, lower back, even muscles you didn’t know you had. Moving feels like defeat. Nature has collected its tax for two solid days of nonstop fucking.

You look at each other, both clearly wrecked, and make the only sensible decision left: spa day. Recovery. Slow movements, heat, rest. Neither of you reaches for real clothes. Staying bare feels safer, like putting anything on might break the strange, suspended spell the two of you are still under.

After a long, careful shower you wrap a big soft blanket around your own shoulders and go looking for her.

You find Sandra standing in her room near the shelf. She’s naked, back to you, one hand raised. You don’t see the small white pill between her fingers.

You step up behind her, drape the blanket over her shoulders in one gentle motion, and wrap your arms around her waist from behind. Your voice comes out soft and almost domestic, the kind of tone that belongs to someone who’s been waking up next to the same person for years.

“Hey beautifull… how do you want your coffee this morning?”

Sandra jolts like she’s been caught doing something illegal.

Her whole body goes rigid, then floods with colour from her chest all the way up to her ears—bright, unmistakable tomato red. The hand near her mouth snaps away so fast the pill flies out of her fingers and ricochet off the floor into the corner of the room. She freezes in your arms, completely flustered, blanket clutched around her like a shield, suddenly unable to look at you.

You just keep holding her, chin resting lightly on her shoulder, eyes closed, waiting for the coffee answer like the most natural thing in the world.

The soft, newlywed delivery of the question hits Sandra like a truck with isekai intentions.

She stands frozen in the blanket you wrapped around her, completely red, brain short-circuiting. It takes her several long seconds to even process language again. When she finally answers, the words come out thin and half-hearted, almost automatic.

“…Just… black. With a little sugar.”

You take it at face value.

A tired nod, a small squeeze of her waist, and you limp out of the room toward the kitchen, still completely oblivious to how sappy and romantic you just sounded. The muscle pain is so loud in your body that the tone you used doesn’t even register as unusual. You’re simply asking your… Sandra… how she wants her coffee. Nothing more.

She is left alone in the bedroom, fully discombobulated.

The blanket is still clutched around her shoulders. Her heart is hammering. The discarded pill lies somewhere in the corner where she flung it, completely forgotten again. She stares at the empty doorway you just walked through, one hand slowly rising to touch the place on her waist where your arms had been, as if trying to confirm the moment actually happened.

The breeding talk, the nonstop sex, the “fucktoy wife” claims—those she could process inside the haze of lust. This was different. Soft. Domestic. The exact kind of casual intimacy that belongs to people who are already on the other side of the line the two of you keep pretending doesn’t exist.

Sandra sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, blanket still wrapped tight, and tries to get her breathing under control while the smell of coffee starts drifting down the hall.

She’s still bright red when you come back.