Maggie

The kitchen is quiet, bathed in soft moonlight that filters through the loft windows like spilled milk across the floor. Outside, the city hums its distant lullaby—far-off traffic, a horn here and there, the occasional bark of a dog echoing between buildings—but inside, it’s all hush. Stillness wraps the space like a blanket, thick with night and heat. I stand at the counter, working the dough between my fingers, brow furrowed in concentration. My hands move rhythmically, instinctively, kneading with a slow patience I rarely afford myself.

The dough is sticky and warm, pliant in a way that makes me think of hearts and skin and other things that respond to touch. My fingers push into it, pull it, fold it over itself again and again. I like the way it fights me, just a little. Alive—that’s the word for it. The dough is alive. And in the hush of the late hour, under the weight of the dim golden light from the pendant lamp over the island, so is everything else.

The kitchen never feels like this when I’m alone. It’s just a kitchen then—industrial steel, dark cabinets, cement floors softened with throw rugs, practical and stylish and a little cold. But when Gideon is home, something changes. The silence shifts. The air seems to breathe. I feel it in my shoulders, in the way my body settles instead of tensing. Like the walls of the loft remember him. And so do I.

I hear the shower shut off and still, fingers still buried in dough, breath caught without permission. It’s a small sound, but it travels down the hallway like a spark on dry kindling. A familiar flutter stirs low in my chest, something warm and restless, like wings.

He might come out right away, towel-damp and sleepy-eyed. Or he might take his time, scrolling through messages or standing in the mirror rubbing lotion into his skin like I teased him for doing before. Either way, I already feel the shift. The air is thicker now, charged. The kind of tension that isn’t tense at all—just full.

Moments pass. Then footsteps.

He enters the kitchen without a word, barefoot, shirtless, wearing nothing but jeans slung low on his hips. His hair is still wet, curling at the ends, darker where it clings to his neck. There’s something about that image—Gideon, barefoot and half-dressed, silent and steady—that always makes me feel like I’ve walked into a dream and can’t find the edges.

I’m wearing one of his old t-shirts, the cotton thin with years of wash, soft and oversized. It falls to mid-thigh and slips off one shoulder, exposing the strap of my bralette and the curve of my collarbone. I don’t look up. I don’t have to. I feel him, his presence a kind of gravity that pulls at my skin.

Cyndi Lauper’s version of At Last plays low from the Bluetooth speaker tucked next to the fridge. It’s not a song I picked deliberately—it came on through some half-forgotten playlist, but it hits me anyway. That soft ache in my chest, familiar and welcome. The song has always touched something raw, but tonight it feels different. Heavier. Like it means more.

I keep kneading. The dough still clings to my fingers, sticky and defiant. It doesn’t matter anymore. My focus is shifting. Then I feel him behind me—close enough that his body heat registers through the thin cotton of my shirt. Gideon doesn’t speak. He just reaches around me, his hands sliding over mine, slow and certain. We move together like we’ve done it a hundred times before. Maybe we have. Maybe that’s the point.

Our rhythm syncs without a word. The music, the soft breath between us, the slight creak of the floorboards beneath our weight—those are the only sounds. His hands dwarf mine, warm and steady, guiding the dough like we’re crafting something sacred. He smells like soap and skin and the faint hint of our shared sheets.

Flour dusts his forearms, ghost-white against his tan. The dough begins to smooth out, but the recipe doesn’t matter anymore. It’s not about the bread.

I lean back into him, just slightly. An invitation. He kisses my neck—slow, deliberate, reverent. My breath hitches. I turn to face him, our eyes locking for a moment before I close the distance between us with my mouth.

The kiss is unhurried. Deep. Like remembering something instead of discovering it. My hands slide up his chest, fingers tracing the ridges of muscle and the soft space just beneath his jaw, then wrap around his neck. The world slips away. The dough. The timer I set but never heard. The lights outside the window. None of it matters.

Without breaking the kiss, he lifts me onto the counter. My legs effortlessly and naturally encircle his waist, a perfect fit. I feel the cool surface of the counter beneath my thighs and the heat of him between them, grounding and electric all at once. He drops to his knees, hands skimming down my legs, parting them with the kind of confidence born from deep knowing. Not ownership—something better. Mutual hunger.

His mouth finds me, slow and purposeful, worshipping rather than taking. I gasp, head falling back, one hand gripping the edge of the counter, the other buried in his damp curls. He moves like a man who isn’t in a hurry because he already knows exactly how I’ll come undone. No fumbling, no guessing. Just patience and precision and care.

When it hits me, it’s total. My whole body arches, heart stuttering in my chest, mouth open in a cry that cracks the stillness. For a moment, I feel suspended, every muscle drawn tight, before the wave crests and leaves me trembling in its wake.

He stands then, mouth glistening, eyes dark with heat. Still no words. He just gathers me into his arms and carries me down the hall, my body limp against his. I don’t speak. I don’t need to. I curl into him, boneless, my cheek against his shoulder, heart still pounding in my chest.

In the bedroom, he lays me down like something fragile. The bedside lamp casts a warm amber glow over his skin. I watch him undress the rest of the way, my breath catching at the sight of him—familiar, yes, but never ordinary. Always more.

He climbs into bed, settles between my thighs, and I open for him without hesitation. No teasing now. No lead-up. Just that quiet, simmering certainty.

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, voice low, rough.

“Then take me,” I murmur, voice steady, eyes holding his.

He enters me slowly, our gazes locked. No more words. Just the rhythm of bodies speaking their own language. Every motion, every shift, every exhale is fluent, honest, desperate in that grounded way that comes from knowing someone’s heart as well as their skin.

I cling to him, legs wrapped tight, hands roaming, back arching. My breath catches again as my body nears that edge once more, the pressure building with relentless grace. I come with a sharp, soft sound, my fingers digging into his back. He follows, groaning into my neck, the moment crashing through both of us like thunder.

Afterward, we don’t move. We stay tangled—limbs overlapping, skin slick and warm, breath syncing again. The weight of the night settles around us. The kind of quiet that isn’t empty at all, but full of everything we don’t have to say.

I exhale slowly, a smile curling against his skin. He kisses my temple, gentle and lingering.

This. This is home.