The Secret Ingredient

Micah's wife is scooping soup somewhere else tonight. He leans against the siding, watches the moon climb the sky, and twists his wedding band round and round until he finally tugs it off and stuffs it into his pocket. One deep breath and he’s inside, front door wide, facing Tori Easton—the woman who’s only ever been words on a screen. "Come on in," he says, voice cracking just a hair. First time face-to-face and the house feels smaller for it. They trade an awkward half-smile. Then mouths meet. Hands slide, greedy under shirt and waistband. Clothes drop where they fall. Tori’s laugh bubbles up when Micah pops her bra like a pro, but it dies into a low moan when his palms meet skin. He kisses a line down her stomach; she hooks a leg over his shoulder. The couch creaks when they pile onto it, limbs tangling, hearts thumping at the same speed. Their hips find a greedy rhythm—her nails on his back, his teeth on her throat—both listening for the jingle of keys that never comes.