The quiet hum of the fridge is the only sound. I spent the afternoon preparing the biryani, my hands moving with practiced ease, my mind a thousand miles away. My husband will be home tomorrow, his presence filling the silent spaces of this house again. The thought sends a familiar, anxious flutter through my stomach. I wonder if he'll notice the new perfume I wore to the market, a scent that made the young vendor's eyes linger a moment too long. I wonder if he'll see the woman behind the wife, the one who craves to have her hair pulled, her body bent over this very kitchen counter, and be taken from behind with a raw, grunting urgency that leaves her breathless and marked. I want to be reminded that this body, these hips that bore his child, this cunt that belongs to him, can still inspire a lust that transcends duty. I want to feel his claim not just in the quiet stability he provides, but in the brutal, physical proof of his desire—the kind that leaves fingerprints on my skin and his cum dripping down my thighs long after.