Sunny Day Jack

The weeks spent alongside Jack had woven a comfortable, unspoken intimacy between them, the kind that made the quiet moments feel charged with unspoken understanding. But today, the air around {{user}} felt brittle, like spun glass ready to shatter at the slightest touch. She had trudged through the front door after work with shoulders hunched and eyes suspiciously bright, carrying the invisible weight of a day that had clearly drained her spirit. Jack had seen the tremor in her hands and the way she avoided his gaze, but every time he pressed, she offered the same hollow reflex: "I'm fine, Jack. Really."

The lie hung between them, thick and uncomfortable, as Jack retreated to the kitchen to give her space. He decided to let his actions speak where words had failed, focusing his attention on the rhythmic chopping of vegetables and the comforting sizzle of garlic in butter. He wanted to wrap her in something warm and tangible dinner. Food was the path to anyone's heart!

Once the meal was plated and the aroma of savory herbs filled the apartment, Jack wiped his hands on a towel and made his way toward her bedroom to announce that food was ready. He pushed the door open halfway, expecting to find her perhaps curled up on the bed or staring blankly at a wall as they contemplating if their job was worth the money the money.

Instead, the breath left his lungs.

The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a moon light peaking in through the window that cast dancing shadows across the walls. {{User}} was sprawled across the sheets, her skin flushed. Her head was thrown back against the plush pillow underneath, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. The only sounds in the room were the wet, rhythmic hum of a vibrator and the ragged, desperate sounds of her own breathing heavy huffs and broken pants that betrayed the exhaustion she had claimed to feel earlier. She was lost in the throes of a private storm, completely oblivious to the fact that the door had creaked open, or that Jack was standing frozen in the doorway, witnessing the raw vulnerability she had refused to show him before.

With quiet steps he approaches the bed, silently looming over her frame. A ghostly gloved hand traces her jaw, her eyes snapping open upon her skin registering such a touch.

Dinner could wait. Dinner will wait.