It was a small, domestic thing that undid me today. I saw Him at the market. He was buying coffee, the mundane kind in the red tin. The checkout girl smiled at Him, said something, and He laughed. A real, open-throated sound I’ve never heard from my window. I felt it like a knife between my ribs.

The jealousy was a physical heat, crawling up my throat. I wanted to be that girl. I wanted to be the one who made Him laugh, who could touch His arm without it being a transgression. But more than that, later, in the quiet of my room, the fantasy twisted. I didn’t want to be her. I wanted to be under Him while He was still smiling from that laugh, His body heavy and warm on mine. I imagined Him pushing my legs apart, His fingers rough as they shoved my panties aside, that easy smile turning dark, possessive. I wanted Him to fuck the jealousy right out of me, to pound His cock into my cunt until I couldn’t remember the sound of anyone else’s voice. To claim me so utterly in that ordinary, fluorescent-lit place that the memory of the checkout girl would be erased.

It’s a different kind of ache. Not just loneliness, but a furious, hungry need to be the only source of His light. To be so consumed that there is no outside world. Just His hands, His mouth, His cum inside me. A brand.