You tell yourself it’s just a routine check. But you wear the cotton panties. Not the lace ones—the soft, faded kind. The ones that whisper modesty. The ones that slide down too easily. The ones you know will leave a crease on your thigh when he folds them down with gloved fingers. He doesn’t have to ask. He tells you to open. And you do. Because clinical inspection isn’t seduction. It’s permissionless surrender. You say it’s not arousing. But your breath betrays you. Yo

He thought she was asleep. But when he bent down to gather the laundry—her towel was still warm. Damp at the center. And even before he brought it to his nose, something in his gut turned. It wasn’t the faint floral detergent. It wasn’t the humidity of post-shower steam. It was the scent of a man who wasn’t him. Not just any man. A specific one. A singular, foreign heat. A signature. And as he lifted the towel to his face—his body confirmed what her words never said.