Fiction: A shared domesticity

The doorbell rings. I look up from my screen, a bit startled even though I’m expecting him. I’d gotten a little lost in a work-related conversation and lost track of time. I put the call on hold and head to my front door. There he is, that twinkle in the eye, that adorable smile. I let him in and tell him he’ll need to hold on as I finish my call. He nods and heads to the kitchen. I wrap up my call and log off for the day.

Five minutes later, I head out into my living room. The scene in front of me makes me pause a second and brings a slight smile to my face. I see him settled at my dining table. He’s put beer into the fridge, popped open a can and poured himself a drink. He’s retrieved a glass from my crockery shelf, got ice from the freezer and looks quite contented with the glass in front of him.

There’s something very intimate and domestic about the whole scene. Something that feels good. As I gather him into my arms and plant a kiss on the top of his head, I realise that it feels like home.