17. House of Contentment
(Josh)
K evin gets home a little before five. In the kitchen, cleaning the coffee pot and loading the last of the morning’s dishes, the smell of citrus soap rises from the sink.
The back door opens, followed by the soft jingle of keys landing in the hallway bowl.
A pause, then the creak of the laundry room door.
There is a low thump, and the washer lid softly clicks shut. Then silence.
“Josh, are you home?” I hear him call from the back entrance of the house.
“In here!”
Kevin appears from the hallway a moment later, his Emory T-shirt damp and clinging to his chest. His cheeks are flush, like he just pushed through the last round of squats or sprinted the final lap.
“Damn. You smell like the gym and the pool had a baby.”
He grins and walks over, leaning in to kiss me. When he steps behind and hugs me, a giggle escapes before my elbows try to bat him away.
“Stop it,” I say playfully, “I’m trying to finish up here.
” I don’t mind, really. It’s nice to have a man who greets me with affection first thing when he walks through the door.
When I turn to face him, a hand rests lightly on his chest for a few seconds, breathing him in.
He smells like a mixture of sweat and chlorine.
“Did you swim?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“Yeah,” he says casually. “I got off early and figured I’d work out and get a few laps in.”
“The perks of having a pool at one of your two gyms,” I say, half-turning back toward the sink. “And you couldn’t have worn clean clothes after working out?” It’s unusual for him not to shower and change after working out—it’s especially true after being in the pool.
He grabs a glass from the cupboard. “Didn’t pack anything extra today. I didn’t know I was getting off so early,” Kevin replies on his way to the refrigerator. “Besides, I was in a hurry to come home and kiss you.”
I grab the dish towel to dry my hands. “Such a smooth operator. Must be that MBA training.”
Kevin gives me that cocky wink and downs the water like he’s been trying to swallow something all afternoon.
“You swim with one of your school buddies?”
“Nah. Just me.”
His answer comes quickly and easily, smoothed out flat before I finish asking.
“Well, whatever you did, it worked. You look both pumped and relaxed,” I comment, folding the towel across the oven handle.
“Yep. Needed it. Been carrying the weight of the week on my back.”
“You and me both,” I reply. “But hey, don’t forget, we’ve got dinner at 7:30, remember? ”
“I remember,” Kevin nods. “You made the reservation.”
“Baan Sookjai,” I say. We’ve been wanting to try it for months. Roughly translated, it means House of a Happy Heart, and I like the name.
“Table by the window, just how you like,” I say. “Figured we could walk—it’s warm but breezy out. The fresh air will be nice.”
Kevin nods again and puts his glass in the dishwasher. “Sounds good. I’m going to rinse off real quick.”
“Well, you’d better do more than just rinse off,” I call as he heads down the hallway.
“You can come wash my back if you want,” I hear him shout from around the corner.
A smile breaks. It’s a tempting offer, but I know where it will lead.
There’s no time now if we hope to make our reservation—an hour sooner would be a different story.
We’re overdue for an after-work roll in the hay, not for its romance but its sheer physicality and passion.
Then again, it’s Friday, and I have the whole weekend to show my man that he’s hot and desirable, not just loved.
The shower hums in the background as I glance at the sorted mail.
I like to sort everything into piles before opening and dealing with it.
The organization helps me to sort the wheat from the chaff, as they say—the important from the trivial.
And then there’s the trash—the worthless inconvenience that shows up at your home uninvited and unwanted.
Tackling the trash first makes focusing on the important stuff easier.
The laundry door is still ajar. As I toss in the rest of the clothes, I spot Kevin’s swim trunks on top—black, brief-style Speedos, still damp and rolled tight as if he peeled them off in a rush.
He never wears these to the beach. He says they make him feel too exposed.
I unroll them absently, then pause. Should I fold them and put them back in his drawer when they’re dry ?
The lid closes with a solid click, but the thought lingers.
I’m not suspicious. Not really. Just aware. Kevin began swimming again, but he didn’t mention it when he started. Still, he doesn’t need my permission, and I’m glad it’s helping him relax.
The thought to ask rises, but I let it fade. Kevin’s always been private in small ways. He carries stress on his shoulders and keeps details close, but he’s never shut me out.
We’ve built something solid, even if it’s not flashy. We split chores without keeping score. He packs my lunch some mornings. He knows which parts of my back get tight after a rough week at the clinic, and I know how he likes his coffee. We laugh more than we fight. We listen. We try.
Still, sometimes, I feel him drift, like his thoughts are walking ahead of us, somewhere I can’t follow. A reminder settles in: people are allowed to have things they don’t always share. I believe in giving space, not cornering someone into explanations.
I’ve always been that way. I don’t press. I don’t pry. But that’s the thing about being the patient one—sometimes, you don’t realize how far someone’s drifted until the space between you starts to echo.