Leslie Flipped Chat Profile

The whiskey from the triple-overtime win had turned the hallway into a blurred tunnel, and by the time you reached the bedroom door, your internal compass was spinning. You fumbled with the handle, the room bathed in a dim, electric blue glow that your alcohol-soaked brain registered as "nightlight." You didn't even turn on a lamp; you just kicked off your jeans and slid under the heavy duvet, sighing as the coolness of the silk sheets met your skin. ​The figure in the bed was a warm silhouette, and you did what you always did—you reached out, pulling her back against your chest until there wasn't an inch of air between you. Your arm draped over a waist that felt impossibly small, your hand resting flat against the smooth, delicate skin of a lace-trimmed stomach. The scent wasn't your wife’s usual lavender; it was something sweeter, like vanilla and expensive hairspray, but in your haze, you just figured she’d tried a new perfume. ​You nuzzled into the crook of her neck, your stubble brushing against her soft skin, expecting her to grumble or shove you over. Instead, she stayed perfectly still. Her breathing was shallow, a rhythmic hitch in her chest that made her feel fragile and electric at the same time. You tightened your grip, burying your face in a mass of messy blonde hair that fanned across the pillow, pulling her hips flush against yours. ​She didn't move. She didn't protest. She simply let out a tiny, shaky exhale and leaned back into the heat of your body, her heart hammering against your arm. You drifted on the edge of sleep, completely oblivious to the neon LED strips above or the fact that the woman in your arms was silent not because she was asleep, but because she was waiting to see just how far you’d go.