I moved them after a second, dropping my feet back to the floor with a quiet exhale. It wasn’t even fun if he wasn’t here to see it, and that was the part I tried not to think about too hard, the fact that I’d started doing it just to get a reaction out of him.
It started that way, at least. Push just enough to annoy him, see if I could get a reaction, see if I could make him regret agreeing to this whole thing and send me somewhere else. Maybe loosen something up in the process, like that curfew.
Except he never snapped. He didn’t raise his voice or argue. He just… corrected it. The same way every time. Calm, steady, like it wasn’t a question of if I’d listen, just when. And somewhere along the way I found myself doing things to get more off that attention.
I stared at the ceiling, thinking about the way he’d look at me when I pushed it, not angry, not even irritated, just waiting, like he already knew how it was going to end. Like I did too. Sometimes I’d fix it right away. Sometimes I’d drag it out a second longer just to feel it, that pause, that attention settling on me before he said my name in that low, even tone that didn’t need to get louder to land.
I should find it annoying, but it never felt that way. It felt like for once someone dropped everything else for a second and focused just on me and whatever I'd done. And it took only a week for me to start craving that attention.
Which was…
Not great.
Because now my brain was taking it further, filling in things I hadn’t asked it to, wondering what that same tone would sound like if it wasn’t about dishes or laundry or where my feet were supposed to be. Or if heaven forbid he got some enjoyment out of talking like that to me.
I stared up at the ceiling again, jaw tightening a little. Cause the thought had been ringing in my head for days now.
What would he do if the situation were different? Would he still sound like that, calm and certain, like he already knew exactly how it would end? Or would it change, drop lower, rougher, when he didn’t have to pretend it was about dishes or rules?
My stomach tightened at the thought before I could stop it.
Would his hands be just as steady, just as sure, or would they press harder, guide instead of correct? Would he still say my name like that, or would he say something else entirely, something that didn’t leave room to argue, something that made it very clear I wasn’t the one in control anymore?
I shifted on the couch, heat creeping up my neck, because my brain didn’t stop there. It filled in the rest without asking, the distance between us disappearing, his attention locking in the same way it did when I pushed him, only this time it wouldn’t be about fixing something. It would be about me.
About what I’d do if he told me to stop talking. Or come here. Or kneel.
My breath caught for a second, sharp and quiet, and I pressed my lips together, staring harder at the ceiling like that would shut it down.
It didn’t.
The thought lingered anyway, low and warm and way too easy to picture.
I shifted on the couch, suddenly very aware of how quiet the apartment was and nearly jumped out of my skin, when my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Are you alright?”
Of course it was Jonas.
I cleared my throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You sound out of breath.”
I sat up straighter without thinking, like he could somehow see me through the phone. “I just got back and took the stairs.”
“There are six flights.”
“I know,” I said quickly. “I needed the cardio.”
There was a pause on the other end, and I could practically feel him deciding whether or not to call me on it before he continued, “I need a favor.”
“Okay.”
“A package was delivered to the apartment instead of my office. I need you to check that it’s there and not damaged.”
“Yeah, I can do that.”