The door closed softly behind us, the sound echoing a little too sharply in the quiet afternoon. I felt the coolness of the air, but instead of relief, a strange heat settled in my chest — not warmth from comfort, but from something heavier, a flutter of discomfort I couldn't quite place.
He stayed silent beside me. I could tell something was on his mind, but when I glanced at him, I chose calmness. No need to stir the air with worries that might be nothing.
Inside, I slipped off my slippers and moved to the kitchen, trying to shake off the weight of the strange encounter.
"Next time," I said lightly, pulling my hair into a bun, "we should bring candles. That place feels like it needs light more than anything else." I smiled softly, hoping to lift the moment.
He laughed, but it sounded forced.
Our home welcomed us back with its warm glow — everything felt right, yet I too sensed an invisible shadow trailing behind us. Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe it was just unfamiliarity. Maybe the old man's hug was just awkward, nothing more.
Later that evening, we went out to watch a movie — a gentle story about new beginnings. I laughed when it felt natural, leaned in close when the quiet moments came. His hand found mine, and for a while, the strange tension loosened. I wanted to believe nothing was wrong.
Coming back from the movie, the night wrapped around us like a soft blanket. Most homes were quiet, but one stood awake — its windows glowing, sounds spilling into the street.
A woman's voice, raw and untamed, broke the quiteness. It wasn't pain, but something wild, alive, and unhidden.
I felt my fingers tighten around his. I didn't want to look at the window — not because of shame, but because some things are not ours to understand.
My cheeks warmed, and I quickened my steps. No words. No explanations. Just a silent wish to leave the noise behind.
At home, I moved through the familiar motions: cardigan off, water poured, light talk exchanged. I was quieter, yes — but steady.
Later, when the house was dark and sleep near, the sounds returned — louder, fiercer. The woman's cries filled the night again.
I lay still, half-aware, neither disturbed nor drawn. Something in me listened quietly, distant and calm.
His hand found my waist, and I leaned in, meeting his kiss with an eagerness that surprised me — a spark between us, born from the complexity of the night.
We made love in a way that felt new and familiar all at once, a dance of closeness and release. I wanted him to feel safe, to believe in the comfort we shared here, in this new place.
When it ended, I turned away from the window, seeking peace in the dark. He stayed awake, and I wondered what thoughts raced behind his eyes.
But to myself I kept repeating these words:
We are happy. We are home.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments between heartbeats, I feel a ripple of something else — a question without a name.