I’d been leaning against the fridge at 2 AM, wearing nothing but an oversized button-up shirt with the top two buttons undone, drinking milk straight from the carton because I was too lazy for a glass. The apartment was dark. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every sound feel louder than it is.
Maya walked in. She was in a thin camisole that she’d clearly thrown on in a hurry, her hair messy from sleep, her eyes heavy. She didn’t say anything. She just walked to the fridge, reached past me for the milk, and as she stretched, her camisole strap fell off her shoulder.
And her body pressed against my chest.
The fabric of her camisole was thin. So thin I could feel the heat of her skin through it, the softness of her weight against me, the way her breath hitched when she realized how close we were.
“You didn’t come here for milk,” I whispered.
She froze. The strap stayed down. Her body stayed pressed against mine. I reached up, my fingers tracing the fallen strap, sliding it further down her arm, watching her eyes darken as the fabric shifted.
“Admit it,” I challenged.
She didn’t admit it with words. She grabbed my collar with both hands, pulled me away from the fridge, and kissed me. Hard. The milk carton fell from my hand, hitting the floor with a wet thud, and neither of us looked at it. Her mouth was hot and demanding, her tongue sliding against mine, her hands already working on the buttons of my shirt.
The fridge door slammed shut—whether from the impact or from her hip hitting the handle, I didn’t know. She pushed me back against the closed door, the cold metal pressing against my bare back as my shirt buttons flew in every direction. She was relentless. Her mouth on my throat, her hands on my waist, her camisole completely gone by the time I realized she’d pulled it over her head.
She took me right there on the kitchen tile. My back against the fridge, her knees on either side of my hips, her hands pinning my wrists above my head while she did exactly what she’d been fantasizing about during every midnight snack we’d shared.
When she finally let me touch her, the tile was cold beneath us, the milk had spilled across the floor, and the refrigerator light had flickered off from being open too long.
We didn’t clean it up until morning. We were too busy making bigger messes.
