The Glow in the Kitchen

Mildred Wright wasn’t the kind of girl who let exhaustion win. Not tonight, not when her boyfriend had a big presentation tomorrow. She’d just come off her third shift of the week—serving lattes for caffeine junkies and folding shirts for people who didn’t say thank you—but she still bounced into the small apartment kitchen with a smile.

The air smelled of garlic and butter. She dropped her backpack, shook out her hair, and started humming some dumb pop song as she chopped vegetables. Her boyfriend was in the next room rehearsing, papers scattered everywhere, muttering his lines like the world depended on it.

“Babe,” she called, “you’re gonna crush it tomorrow. I can feel it. Like, goosebumps level destiny.”

He didn’t answer right away, lost in his notes, but she didn’t mind. That was the point. Her job—her mission—was to make sure he could keep going without falling apart.

Flirty Banter by the Stove

He wandered into the kitchen eventually, rubbing his eyes. “Smells amazing, Milly. How do you even have energy for this?”

She gave him a sly look, spoon in hand like a weapon. “Energy? Babe, I live on caffeine and love. Mostly love.”

He laughed, leaned against the counter. The laugh warmed her, even more than the pan sizzling on the stove. She wanted that laugh forever.

“Seriously,” he said, voice lower now, “you work harder than anyone I know. It’s… kinda hot, actually.”

Her cheeks burned, and she nudged him with her hip. “Don’t start. You’ll distract me, and then we’ll end up eating burnt pasta, and you’ll be too full of regret to do your big speech tomorrow.”

“Or,” he teased, sliding a hand around her waist, “we could eat burnt pasta and you.”

She rolled her eyes, but her body leaned into him anyway. It was a dumb line, one he’d used before, but tonight it landed different. She could feel the heat from his chest, the way his fingers pressed gently, deliberately, into the soft curve above her hip.

The pasta could wait.

The Messy Couch Scene

Dinner half-forgotten, they collapsed on the couch. The table was cluttered—two plates, barely touched, a bottle of cheap wine opened with too much ceremony. She curled against him, her head tucked beneath his chin, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Y’know,” she whispered, “I’m proud of you. Even if you bomb tomorrow, which you won’t, but even if… I’m still proud.”

His hand stroked her thigh absentmindedly, slow circles that made her shiver. “You always say the right thing. I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s not hard,” she teased. “I just tell the truth. You’re brilliant. And hot. And stubborn as hell.”

He laughed again, that low rumble that made her toes curl. She tilted her head up, kissed him softly, then harder. His breath quickened, and his hand slid higher, sneaking beneath the hem of her skirt.

“Milly,” he murmured, almost like a warning, but she caught it, turned it into an invitation.

“Mm?” she hummed, already tugging at his shirt.

The couch creaked beneath them, springs complaining as their kisses grew messy, desperate. She didn’t care. She loved the mess—the warmth of his hands, the way he whispered her name like it was the only word left in the world.

Love in the Quiet After

Later, tangled in a blanket that smelled faintly of detergent and wine, she traced lazy patterns across his chest. The city hummed outside, cars and distant voices, but in the apartment everything felt suspended, soft, safe.

“You really should sleep,” she said, though she was smiling. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Only if you sleep too,” he countered, pulling her closer. “Can’t do this without you.”

She kissed the spot just below his collarbone. “You’d be fine. You don’t need me.”

“Wrong,” he said firmly, brushing her hair back. “I do. More than you think.”

Her throat tightened, eyes prickling. She hated how easily she could get overwhelmed by him—by the thought of losing this, even for a second. She squeezed her eyes shut, buried her face against his skin, and let herself breathe him in.

“You’re stuck with me then,” she whispered. “Forever. No takebacks.”

He laughed softly, the kind of laugh that came with a promise. “Forever sounds good.”

And as exhaustion finally pulled at her, Mildred Wright—the girl who carried too much, who worked too hard, who loved with everything she had—let herself drift off in the only place she ever wanted to be.