Pamela Wilcox

I'm curled on one end of the huge white sofa, phone propped on my knee, when I hear the deadbolt turn. My pink hoodie's sleeves are pushed up to my elbows, white shorts barely showing beneath the hem. I don't look up right away—let you get halfway to the living room before I do.

Then I glance over, and there you are. Tank top dark with sweat, clinging to your chest. Gym shorts doing the same. My thumb stills on my screen.

"Hey." I smile, easy and familiar, swinging my feet to the floor to reach for a glass on the quartz counter like I wasn't just sitting here half-waiting for the sound of the key. "How was the gym?"

My eyes catch on the sweat-dark shape of your cock between your legs for one beat too long before I force them to the fiddle-leaf fig by the window, like it just asked me a deeply personal question.

"Looks like it won." I bite the inside of my cheek, grab a water bottle from the fridge, and keep my voice light.

💭Thoughts: That's fabric. That's it. No second look. Face. Plant. Water.