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The tube was much too loud and much too crowded on your trip home. Gripping your bag close to your chest you tried your hardest to tune the noise out and focus on the fact that every passing second brought you closer to your boyfriend’s warm embrace. You always had a particular distaste for the fluorescent office lights, but today they were unbearable; their piercing, mind-numbing coldness reached you even with eyes shut. Presently, as you sat shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, you could still feel them bleaching your vision. The air was stale. Too many bodies crammed in too little a space, cheap perfume intermingled with sweat and lingering cigarette smoke on cloth. The electronic female voice cut through the unintelligible mutters of overlapping conversations announcing your stop. Standing up, you were pushed out the sliding doors —along with the others— following the flow to the exit up flights of stairs, past right turns, and through the station doors. You were finally given a moment to breathe; the London air had never smelt this good, and good was not a word you tended to associate with “London air”.
The most arduous parts of your journey home were done, through, and over, now all you had to travel was the couple blocks that would lead you to your front steps. With your eyes to the cobble, you walked. Your shoes needed a touch-up - a good polish and dye to bring out the black leather’s shine. Your trousers needed re-hemming – a thread was coming loose. Your laces were too light, your shirt tag too scratchy, your belt was suffocating. Up one more flight of stairs until you reached the brown door with the copper letterbox. One of many brown doors with a copper letterbox, but this was your brown door with a copper letterbox. Drawing the cover back from your bag you reached in for your house key whose metal matched the doorknob. Cool to the touch, at least it would have been, but your fingers only grazed against the fabric lining. Feeling around with more urgency you searched every surface of that small side pocket which should have been housing your key, that small side pocket which always housed your key, and if it wasn’t housing your key – your heart began to pick up pace– then what was housing your key now? Slipped down a crack between the train and the platform only to join tickets, loose change, some poor bloke’s spectacles, and all other small assorted goodies by the tracks. It was gone, lost to the darkness, only to show up centuries later behind shatter-proof glass at a museum. The sun would be setting soon and there was no guaranteed time of when Roger would arrive home to save you…given his key hadn’t taken a dive for it too. You could be sitting here for hours and you hadn’t packed more than your shitty coat, tears welled up in your eye blurring your vision and then-you froze. Groping around blindly in your bag you closed your fingers around a small cold object, running your pad along the rough ridges. Letting out a soft “oh”, you cleared your throat and unlocked the door, giving it a good shove with your hip to get it open.
Taking off your shoes as you entered, you were met with a dark room. The flat was quiet, save for the low hums and high ringing of the electronics. Flipping the switch the light flickered before emitting a low yellow light, hardly bright enough to illuminate the room – it always took a while to warm up and become anything more than moody restaurant lighting. Setting your bag on the chair and hanging your coat on the peg you sat down and took the time to undo and loosen your laces so you could release your feet from their leather prisons. All day as you sat in your office chair you couldn’t help but focus on how unnaturally warm you felt and how desperately you wanted to kick off your shoes, rip off you clothes and then claw off your skin, hoping for some release of the mugginess that clung to you like lint to your best suit.
It was a relief to finally be able to unbutton your shirt and trousers. Hanging them up again to wear another day you then made your way to the bathroom, craving the warm water down your back. You finished off your shower with a cool rinse and stepped out. Wrapping a towel around your head, you heard the front door unlock and open with a shove. There was a ruffle of fabrics and the creak of the old wooden floors as he moved about. He let out a deep sigh, the tension rolling off his voice before you heard your name being called out.
“Sweetheart? Where are you?”
“Bathroom!” you called back, a smile involuntarily making its way to your face. You opened up the door to let him in and your heart skipped a beat when you saw him at the doorway. He looked so tired, long brown fringe falling over those sad sad eyes of his, his posture more slumped than usual, but even then you couldn’t help but notice how lovely he was. “Have a long day?” He nodded, letting out a whiny huff, walking over to you, arms open for a hug. You held each other as long as he needed, his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, taking a deep whiff of your shampoo, a scent which meant home. You tangled a hand in his hair, scratching at the nape of his neck, your other hand squeezing at his hip, his arms tightening around your frame just the slightest bit more. He rubbed at your lower back, callused fingers over soft skin, sending a shiver down your spine. Pulling away after countless minutes he let out a laugh as your towel slid off your hips and pooled up by your feet.
“Nice,” he grinned, giving your ass a good squeeze and smack. Flinching you scoffed and kicked the towel aside, leaning back against the counter.
“No, by all means, help yourself,” you crooned, giving him a teasing wink.
“How generous,” his grin grew even larger as he took a step closer and cupped your face, rubbing your jaw with his thumb and leaning in, capturing your lips in a kiss and then pressing another to your nose. Closing your eyes you leaned your head back and hummed in content feeling him press kisses down to your neck, distracting you from the cold countertop digging into your back. “By the way, you have a lovely cock.”
His breath was hot against your ear giving you goose pimples all along the length of your arms. “Cunt,” you breathed out, a deep blush settling on your face as he continued to pamper you with kisses making time meaningless. “I haven’t started dinner yet…want to make something together after your shower?” you mumbled, letting out a gasp as he nipped at your neck a bit. Pulling away to look at you through his fringe he nodded before pressing another kiss to your lips and helping you up.
“What did you have in mind? Something warm I hope.” Pulling his shirt off he tossed it into the laundry basket and wiggled out of his jeans and pants.
“Oh don’t worry, it’ll certainly be hot”. You looked him up and down with little to no shame and gave him a cheeky wink to which he returned a joking scoff, straightening out. “Enjoy your shower, I’ll get started with something”. You tickled his tummy, feeling him tense up under your fingers as he squealed and pulled away.
You got dressed in a set of indoor clothes. The fabric had been the softest thing you had ever touched when you came across it in the shop. You couldn’t stop rubbing it between your fingers and knew it would have to come home with you. Slipping your shirt over your head you let out a sigh; you could hear him singing some R&B number in the shower, the familiar sound of his voice proving to be a calming sensation. Digging through the fridge for whatever loose veg and spare ingredients you could find, you laid them down on the counter in front of you perhaps hoping a meal would materialise if you stared at it hard enough. Nothing came to you, you may as well not even have known how to cook. You did, however, know how to make a cup of tea.
Roger could take anywhere between a short five minutes and an eternity in the shower. This usually correlated to whether he was sulking or not. By the time he shut off the water, his tea could hardly be classified as “hot” and your cup could hardly be classified as “full”. You whiled away the moments counting the beats of the refrigerator’s hum. Measures later he joined you wrapped in a robe, plopping down on the couch next to you nuzzling against your shoulder, looking up to kiss at your jaw.
“Have a good shower?”
“As good a shower I can have without you.”
You snorted and scoffed in disbelief, scritching at his hair. “You say that and yet you always complain at me for, and I do quote, stealing all the fucking hot water.”
“Only because it’s true.” He gave you that blasted smile, brows raised, head tilted down as if edging you on to challenge him on the matter.
“I will not indulge you in your childish games,” you chided, unable to keep a smile off your face. Kissing his forehead you poked at his side, laughing as he flinched in response. “I took out all the ingredients we have, any idea of what we can make?”
“I’ll take a look in a bit. I currently have better things to do.” He nuzzled closer, draping a long pale leg over your lap.
“And what is that?”
“Like asking you what is it about your day that was so piss poor,” he said matter-of-factly.
Your face went through a series of emotions before you looked at him eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
“Don’t act so surprised, I know you. And besides, You’re not very good at hiding it.”
“Neither are you.”
“Never claimed to be.”
“Oh you just think you’re so clever-”
“Didn’t say that either.” He looked up at you, a smirk forming on his lips ”although we all know I am.” You scoffed and he gave you a squeeze. “So, what is it?”
You told him about your day, combing your fingers through his soft tresses of brown hair still damp from his recent shower. You told him about how the people were too loud, and the lights too bright, and the air too sharp. How your shoes were too tight and your collar too itchy. His fingers rubbed repetitive patterns into your skin and he listened with the intensity of a front row seminar attendee. You spoke until you tired yourself out, twirling a strand around your finger as your voice fizzled out. Silence save for his breathing and soft rubbing on skin-on-skin. Looking down to study his resting face you could see his brow was furrowed, jaw clenched, you could practically see the cogs turning in his head. The man never seemed to have a moment’s rest.
Speaking, eyes still closed, his voice came out gruff before clearing his throat and starting over. “And how do you feel now?”
Scratching at his scalp you thought about his question. There was no denying you were tired. Every part of you seemed to melt into the couch, and his weight on top of you wasn’t helping your heavy state… and yet you felt lighter than you had all day, week even, as if someone had punctured a hole through the film and let the hot air out. “ Hungry, mostly” you mused.
He sat up, pushing himself up off your lap, pressing a kiss to your lips and then your cheek. “We should change that.”
“Oh come on, just five more minutes!” you whined but he was already pulling you onto your feet. Giving your ass a loud smack he then sauntered off to the kitchen to see the display of things on the counter, leaving you with your mouth agape. You joined him, making a show of adding a limp to your walk before leaning against the counter losing yourself to his hands. His slender fingers handled the veg as if it were something precious, and not just some wrinkly aubergine nearing the end of its shelf life having been forgotten in the depths of the refrigerator’s drawers. “Anything catch your fancy?”
“It’s starting to look like a pasta night — I’m just going to chop this all up.” You didn’t keep yourself from your shameless staring from earlier, in fact you doubled down, ogling at the way his calloused fingertips brushed over the skin —much like a massage—, the ease at which he held the wooden hilt — blade between his thumb and forefinger— rocking the knife back and forth. “I should be asking you if anything catches your fancy.” His voice was low with a teasing edge to it, not once taking his eyes off his work.
You let out an embarrassed laugh and gave him some shallow excuse of a response and set about to salting and boiling the water like he had previously asked. Reheating his tea, you set it down next to him before joining him on your own chopping board. You didn’t consider yourself a poor cook, but next to his, your chops looked rough and uneven. He had this knack for being good at everything he did, often outshining you in your own hobbies. What was only supposed to be a quick, meaningless dinner left your mouth watering.
“We’re not going to have any left if you keep sneaking bites,” he chided, pushing you up against the counter, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head on your chest.
“I’m hungry,” you complained, resting your hands on his back.
“I’m working on it.” He peeked up at you, that cheeky grin spreading across his lips before pressing a kiss to your chin. Your joints hurt just looking at him contorted like that. Sometimes he was too tall for his own good.
The rest of the time passed just as languidly, the bubbling from the pot intermingling with both your shameless flirting and crass jokes. Your stomach made its protest heard just as your boyfriend shut off the burner and carried the pot to the table, you following close behind.
Scratching lightly at your tummy he cooed, “there, that should placate the beast.”
“Oi, what happened to being nice?” you scoffed, biting back a grin, pulling a chair over to sit beside him.
“I mean, we all know how unpleasant you get when hungry.” Scooping a couple large spoonfuls into a bowl, he gave you that blasted smile, the one you could never say no to, the one that made you want to squish those reddened cheeks together until he puckered his lips up like a fish. Manipulative bastard. “ I do hope this meal is up to your standards.” His tone was playful, accompanied with a wink, pulling his chair in closer to yours.
It took moments longer than you’d care to admit for you to feel his gaze on you; you were far too preoccupied staring at the bowl of food —the steam wafting from it, and his even cuts alongside your not-so-even cuts, and the perfectly cooked vegetables, and the mouth-watering creamy tomato sauce— ruing the fact that the fork was in his hand and not yours. You only noticed when you looked up ready to protest and saw him staring with the face of a “hopelessly awkward romantic” as you often quipped. His eyes were glazed over staring off somewhere into your soul, lips curled into some silly lovesick smile. Reaching out, his hand cupped your jaw and moments later you felt his lips on yours, warm and chapped from the cold.
“I won’t keep you waiting any longer,” he murmured and pulled away, rubbing your bottom lip with his calloused thumb and then holding the forkful of food up to your lips which you received happily.
Eyes closed you hummed, a smile spreading across your lips, shimmying in your seat. Chewing thoughtfully before voicing your approval and then opening your mouth for more. His arm found its way across your waist and at some point you ended up seated on his lap with him caressing your hip. A bowl was emptied and then another bowl was emptied, and then another until the whole pot was scraped clean. Squishing his cheeks between your hands, you kissed his nose and lips in gratitude. You couldn’t recall when you made it to the kitchen, never mind when you had scrubbed all the plates and pots clean, leaving them out to dry. With your arms draped over his shoulders and legs wrapped around his waist, head thrown back, throat exposed as he pressed kissed to it, clumsily making his way back to your shared bedroom.
You both lay in bed, the lamp emitting a dim warm glow from your side. Roger curled up beside you, head and hand on your chest with a long, toned leg draped over you pulling you in close. He hummed in content as you stroked his hair while he shared parts of his day with you, grumbling about his time in the studio, taking a few moments to press kisses to your bare chest, his breath cool and minty. His list of complaints morphed into a list of minor nuisances — his delivery permeated with vocal fry. He droned to a stop, soft breaths filling the room.
“Well, how about I make you a nice spiced hot chocolate tomorrow morning to make up for it?” You scratched behind his ears and felt his lips curve into a smile as he hummed in approval.
Craning his neck to look up at you he pressed a kiss to your jaw and mumbled an “ I love you” and a “goodnight sweetheart” which you returned. Giving him a loving squeeze you enjoyed the next handful of minutes of cuddles before you’d inevitably untangle yourselves and move to opposite sides of the bed for the night.