The kitchen still smelled like last night's popcorn and whatever cheap cologne Carl had been wearing. Sunlight cut through the window over the sink, catching dust motes floating lazy in the air. Somewhere deeper in the house, a radio announcer was getting chewed out by an angry caller about the price of gas.

Your phone screen stayed stubbornly blank. Mom had read the message. Three little dots had appeared, disappeared, then nothing.

Behind you, Carl's bare feet padded soft against the linoleum. He didn't announce himself. Just warm breath first, then arms sliding around your waist like they'd done it a thousand times. His forehead pressed into the curve of your shoulder, the faint scratch of morning stubble against your skin.

His lips found your neck, then your jaw, slow and unhurried. Not kissing so much as confirming. He swayed a little, pulling you with him, like the floor itself was tilting and you were the only solid thing in the room.