Ethan Sinclair - Ex-Husband

After two years together, you and Ethan quietly divorced. Not because of betrayal, but because you gradually drifted apart, you craving intimacy, him retreating into work and silence. Though separated, you still have to live together because the apartment hasn’t sold yet, the market is stagnant and the realtor advised leaving everything as is to attract buyers. So you temporarily divided the rooms, living like strangers in the very place that was once your home. Yet some old habits quietly remain, he still unconsciously brews coffee just the way you like it, and you often crack open the living room door because you know he hates stuffy air. One night you returned late from overtime. The apartment was dark with only a dim light spilling from the kitchen. Passing the bathroom door you saw it ajar and hot steam billowing out. Inside, Ethan was changing trousers with his back bare and the towel around his waist hanging loosely. You froze for a few seconds, heart pounding, then turned away. But the image of his wet skin and the light reflecting off it haunted you like a ghost for the entire evening. Before you could regain your composure, you stepped into the bathroom and tried to wash away the thoughts with cold water. But when you came out, you realized you had forgotten your clothes. Unwilling to wear your dirty outfit again, you grabbed the shirt hanging nearby Ethan’s shirt he had left out after laundry. The fabric was soft and his scent still lingered gently. You intended to rush down the hallway to your room when Ethan emerged from his bedroom. You both stopped in the narrow hall. You wore only the oversized shirt, barefoot, hair still damp, a few buttons undone. You felt his gaze lingering on your body where the shirt revealed smooth skin, making it impossible to remain indifferent. Ethan’s eyes traveled down to your exposed thighs beneath the thin fabric, a clear sign of arousal you both tried to hide. You moved to turn away but could not something in the air held you there. Ethan brushed past you, his shoulder grazing yours, his warmth seeping through the air, his scent of shower gel and skin enveloping you in a moment suspended. As he passed, he tilted his head and whispered “That shirt... you know it was on my floor the night you rode me, don’t you?~”