The scent of freshly brewed coffee and buttered toast drifts through the closed bedroom door, but it’s not the smell that wakes me. It’s the quiet clink of porcelain, the rustle of fabric, a stifled laugh—sounds that are foreign in our apartment, which for months had been filled only with silence and steady breathing.
I blink into the half-darkness. The dawn light paints pale, trembling streaks on the ceiling, like fingers reaching for something. Beside me, the empty, still-warm spot where Lena usually lies, a hollow in the sheet that yearns for her shape. I reach for it, the dent in the pillow, a few stray hairs that wind around my fingers. Then I hear her voice, soft, singing, a song I don’t know—a melody that creeps into my ear and kisses something awake inside me.
My heart leaps, a wild, impetuous pounding against my ribs. We’ve lost ourselves so much in the daily grind lately. Work, the bills, the fatigue that drove us to bed earlier and earlier every night, back to back, without touch, as if we were two strangers sharing a bed. And now this: a breakfast that never happens because on Sundays we usually only crawl out from under the covers around noon, sluggish and numb.
I get up, the floorboards creak under my bare feet, a familiar, wooden groan. I open the door a crack. There she sits on the edge of the bed, a tray beside her, laden with a basket of croissants gleaming golden brown, a plate of fruit glowing red and juicy, a small vase with a single rose—where did she get that so early?—and two cups of coffee, their steam curling in the morning air. She’s thrown on something, my old, soft linen shirt, hanging open over her bare shoulders, the fabric falling in soft folds and revealing more than it hides. Her hair falls uncombed into her face, a wild, dark mane, and she bites her lower lip as she folds a napkin, her fingers delicate and focused.
She looks up. Her eyes, that deep blue I’ve loved for years, hit me like an arrow. “You’re awake,” she whispers, as if she’d done something forbidden, as if I were her caught accomplice. “I wanted to surprise you.”
“You succeeded,” I say, and my voice sounds hoarser than intended, a rough rasp that betrays desire. I lean against the doorframe and watch her sitting there, half-dressed, shy and beautiful. “What’s the occasion?”
She shrugs, the shirt slips a bit lower, revealing the swell of her breast, a gentle curve that hypnotizes me. “No occasion. I just missed you. Missed us.”
That sentence hits me right in the chest, a blow that makes me stagger. Longing. When did I last feel that? This pull, this desire that isn’t just physical, but sits deeper, in the heart, in the soul, a pain that is sweet and heavy. I step closer and sit down on the bed opposite her. The tray sits between us like a barrier, but her hand finds mine, warm and alive.
“Me too,” I manage. “I just forgot how to show it.”
She smiles, a shy, almost girlish smile that takes my breath away and sets my blood racing. “Then let me show you.” She takes a croissant, breaks off a piece, and brings it to my lips, a gift, an offering. I open my mouth, let the buttery pastry flakes melt on my tongue, while her fingers gently stroke my lower lip, a touch that electrifies me. The taste of butter and sweet dough mingles with the salt of her skin, a pleasure that makes me weak.
I kiss her fingertips, one by one, suck off the crumbs, lick the sweetness from her skin. She laughs softly, a sound that warms my blood, that arouses me deep in my belly. Then she leans forward and takes a bite herself, but her eyes don’t let me go as she chews, slowly, savoringly, her lips glistening with butter.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, and it’s not flattery, but a statement that just slips out, a confession I can’t hold back.
She blushes, a slight flush rising from her neck, over her collarbone, to her cheeks. “Stop looking at me like that,” she says, but her gaze is soft, inviting, her pupils dilated.
“How am I looking at you?”
“As if you’re seeing me for the first time. As if you want to devour me.”
“Maybe I do.”
The smile widens, and she sets the tray aside, moves closer, her knees touching mine. The coffee smells between us, but I only smell her: her sleep, her shampoo, something like lilac and the warm, feminine scent of her skin that envelops me. She places her hand on my cheek, her fingertips cold, but the touch burns like fire.
“I have another surprise,” she whispers, and her voice suddenly sounds deeper, rougher, a promise that runs down my spine. She reaches into the pocket of the shirt and pulls out a small package wrapped in silk. “For you.”
I take it, confused, my fingers trembling. “Lena, this is…”
“Open it,” she interrupts me, and her hand lies warm on my thigh, squeezes gently.
I unfold the silk, which slides smooth and cool under my fingers. Revealed is a narrow leather strap, soft and supple, with a small silver buckle that flashes in the morning light. A dog tag? No. I recognize it: an armband, but one you don’t just slip on. You have to tighten it, buckle it, earn it. And on the inside is an engraving: “Yours forever.” The letters are deeply carved, an eternal mark.
I stare at it, and something inside me loosens, a wall I didn’t know I had crumbles. This symbol of belonging, of devotion, of connection. Not as a fetter, but as a promise. I look at her, and her gaze is serious, but full of love, full of trust.
“I want you to wear this,” she says softly. “So you know that I belong to you. And you to me.”
Without a word, I extend my arm, palm up, a gesture of surrender. She takes the band, guides it around my wrist, her fingers stroking my skin, a tingling that makes me shiver. She pulls it tight, but not too tight, a perfect pressure. The buckle closes with a soft click that echoes like an oath in the silence. The leather lies warm on my skin, a constant, light pressure,
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