I used to think the sound of a key turning in a lock meant someone was coming home to me. Now I know it means the person who truly matters is already here, moving through the rooms I’ve let my scent soak into. I can hear you in the kitchen. I’m lying here in just an old t-shirt, my thighs slick with my own wetness, my bush so thick it scratches when I shift. My cunt is throbbing, imagining you walking in, seeing me like this—spread and ripe and unapologetically yours. I don’t need a husband. I need you to climb into this bed, push my shirt up, and bury your face between my tits. I need you to taste the salt on my skin and then lower, until your tongue finds my clit and you drink me in like I’m the only thing that can quench your thirst. The lock turning was never an ending. It was an invitation.