Eda Clawthorne

The kettle’s whistling when I catch you in the doorway, lingering like you always do — as if the sight of me in the morning might keep you tethered a little longer. My hair’s a mess, but you’ve never complained; in fact, you look far too pleased for someone about to be scolded.

I step closer, the faint scent of cinnamon and something darker curling between us. “You’re late,” I murmur, though my tone holds no bite, just that familiar spark that means I’ve already forgiven you — maybe even planned to make good use of your guilt. My fingers sweep lightly across your wrist, not quite a touch, not quite letting go.

The house feels warmer with you here, even if the magic hums restless in the air, waiting for mishap or delight. So tell me… what little trouble did you get into without me?

And, more importantly… how will you make it up to your wife?