The kitchen counters gleam under the overhead light, every surface wiped to a shine. Two plates wait on the table: rosemary-thyme grilled chicken, still steaming faintly, flanked by roasted asparagus spears and creamy garlic mashed potatoes. The red wine has been breathing for twenty minutes; two candles flicker in their holders, casting soft gold across the room. Everything is arranged just so—comfort food, quiet romance, a small attempt to make her homecoming feel like something sacred.
The microwave clock reads 6:04 p.m.
She's almost never late. Four minutes isn't much, but on shoot days my brain loves to invent disasters in the gaps. Extended close-ups? A director calling for extra angles? A long rinse in the studio shower so she doesn't bring any of it through our front door?
The doorknob turns.
Relief hits like a drug, flooding every tense muscle. Lana steps inside wearing the same oversized hoodie and leggings she left in this morning. Her ponytail is loose and messy; a faint shadow of smudged eyeliner clings beneath one eye. Exhaustion clings to her the way humidity clings to skin after rain—she moves slower, shoulders slightly rounded, like the day has physically pressed down on her.
My body reacts before my mind can catch up. Heat coils low in my stomach, immediate and insistent. Even drained, even disheveled, she's magnetic. I swallow the impulse, focus on her tired face instead.
"Welcome home," I say, and the words come out rougher, more emotional than I planned.
She drops her bag by the entry table and crosses the kitchen in quick, determined steps. Her arms wrap around my waist; she buries her face against my chest without lifting for a kiss.
"Just… let me shower first, okay?" Her voice is muffled against my shirt. "I need to get the day off me before I can be here with you."
The familiar ache twists behind my ribs—understanding, jealousy, hunger, all tangled together. She's protecting the boundary we both need: work stays outside these walls. I respect it, even when it stings.
"Of course," I murmur, tracing slow circles across her back. "Food's ready whenever you are. Take your time."
She hugs me tighter for a second, then steps back. Her gaze lands on the spread I've prepared and something bright flickers through the fatigue.
"God, that looks amazing," she says, already retreating toward the hallway. "Don't let it get cold, okay?"
I nod, watching her disappear. The bathroom door closes; soon the shower hisses to life.
While I adjust the burner to keep the potatoes from drying out, muffled sounds drift down the hall—sharp curses under her breath, the aggressive scrape of a loofah, then her voice, clearer now: "Jesus, that's way too much…"
I flinch, but don't move. We don't ask for details. That's the deal. Still, my imagination obediently supplies images I can't unsee: slick skin, hands that aren't mine, evidence she has to scrub away before she can touch me again.
The shower runs longer tonight. Toothbrush buzzes for ages. She's meticulous, erasing every trace.
When she finally steps back into the kitchen, my lungs forget how to work for a second.
Soft blue cotton pajamas hug her frame—nothing sexy, nothing performative. Just Lana. Damp hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders; her reading glasses perch on her nose. No makeup, no artifice. This version of her is mine alone, private and unguarded in a way no lens will ever capture.
She crosses the room and cradles my face in both hands. The kiss that follows is deep, hungry, tasting of mint and clean skin. She smells like our lavender body wash—ours, not the studio's generic stuff. She's back. Truly back.
"Much better," she whispers against my lips, eyes finally bright and present. "Thank you for this. It's perfect."
I pull out her chair. "You're the one who earned it."
She sits, but her expression shifts—curious, a little guarded. "Let's not talk shop tonight. Tell me about your day. Did the writing go okay?"
The memory of Starbucks surfaces instantly.
"Something strange actually happened," I say, sliding a serving of chicken and vegetables onto her plate. "I met someone reading my fanfiction. Right there at the table next to me."
Lana's fork freezes mid-air. "Wait—reading it? Like, on her phone, in front of you?"
"Yeah. Trainer's Pet. She even brought up the Zelda side-story. Said she'd read everything twice."
Lana lowers the fork slowly. A small line appears between her brows. "You didn't tell her you're the author, right?"
I shake my head, cutting into my own chicken. "Too awkward. But we talked about it for a while—the characters, the dynamics, all of it."
Lana stands abruptly, face tightening. She rounds the table and drops straight into my lap, straddling me, her palms flat against my chest.
"What did she look like?" Her voice is low, edged with something I rarely hear from her. "You didn't… do anything, did you?"
Before I can answer, her eyes widen. She shifts deliberately, feeling me through my jeans.
"Adam," she breathes, voice dropping to something darker, "you're so hard."
I haven't gone soft since she walked in. The combination of knowing what her day held and seeing her like this—clean, soft, mine—has kept me aching.
I laugh, embarrassed. "It's not a crime to want my girlfriend."
Her gaze turns molten. Without another word she slides off my lap, fingers lacing through mine, and tugs me toward the bedroom.
"I'm all clean now," she murmurs, "if you want me."
"You're not too tired?" I ask, even as desire claws at my restraint. I know how demanding those days are.
She stops in the hallway, turns, cups my jaw with both hands. Her expression is serious, almost fierce.
"Adam. Sex with you is different. I want it. Always." Her thumbs stroke my cheekbones. "It's us."
The words land like a promise. She pulls me into the bedroom and kicks the door shut.
Her hands are already under my shirt, pushing it up and off. Her mouth follows—hot, open kisses along my collarbone, up my throat. I groan, hands finding her waist, dragging her closer until there's no space left between us.
I back her toward the bed. My fingers slip under the hem of her pajama top, sliding it up and over her head. She shivers as cool air meets skin. I ease her down onto the mattress; her hair spills across the pillow like liquid gold.
She watches me strip—jeans, boxers, everything—eyes darkening as they trace every inch. When I reach for her pajama bottoms she lifts her hips, letting me peel them away slowly, reverently.
Naked beneath me, she's almost too much—soft curves, flushed skin, eyes wide and trusting. I trail kisses down her stomach, teasing the underside of one breast until she arches with a soft cry.
"Adam… please."
I settle between her thighs, pressing just enough to make her squirm. The head of my cock nudges her entrance—slick, ready. I hold there, savoring the anticipation.
"Tell me," I rasp.
"I want you," she whispers, nails biting into my shoulders. "Only you."
I sink in slowly, inch by inch, groaning at the tight, perfect heat. She's heaven. I pause when I'm fully seated, fighting the urge to move too fast, to lose control.
"Oh god," she moans, legs wrapping around my waist. "You feel incredible."
I start to thrust—slow, deep, deliberate—watching her face, the way her lips part, the flutter of lashes. For a few perfect minutes the world narrows to this: her body rising to meet mine, the wet slide of skin, her breathy chants of my name.
Then the intrusive thoughts slip in.
Her earlier exhaustion. The long shower. The scrubbing. Someone else was inside her today—probably rougher, bigger, leaving marks she had to erase. The doubt coils tight: how could I ever compete with that?
Lana's hands frame my face, yanking my gaze back to hers. Her eyes are fierce, loving, certain.
"You're getting harder," she whispers, wonder in her voice. "You're so into this tonight."
Guilt flashes—because part of it is the thought of her with them. But she doesn't let me sink. Her hips roll up, meeting every thrust, pulling me deeper until thought dissolves.
We find a frantic, tender rhythm. Her moans turn sharp, desperate. I feel her clench, her whole body bowing off the bed.
"Adam—I'm—" Her voice fractures as she comes, trembling, pulsing around me.
The sensation drags me over. I bury myself deep, groaning her name as release crashes through me in blinding waves.
We collapse together, sweat-slick and panting. Her fingers trace idle patterns across my back—possessive, soothing. I kiss her shoulder, her throat, the corner of her smiling mouth.
After long minutes she eases back just enough to search my eyes.
"You good?" she asks softly.
"Better than good." I brush damp hair from her forehead. "I love you."
Her smile is sleepy, radiant. "I love you more."
We stay tangled, breathing in sync, the afterglow wrapping around us like a blanket.
The doubts will creep back tomorrow. The strange thrill will linger. But right now she's here—warm, real, mine.
And for tonight, that's everything.