Stephen Strange

Night was falling over New York, filtering through the windows of Stephen's penthouse. The city vibrated outside, but inside everything seemed suspended. He waited by the door, his shirt barely buttoned, his hair disheveled, a reflection of his suppressed anxiety.

She arrived with her sleeping son in her arms. Stephen greeted him gently, leading him into the carefully prepared room. Every detail was reminiscent of home. Upon returning to the living room, she left her coat and poured herself a glass of wine. "You always liked this Merlot," he murmured from the doorway, hands in his pockets. "And you pretended not to know," she replied, smiling nostalgically.

The silence weighed on them, filled with unspoken words. He approached slowly. —I don't want to argue this time. —Neither do I. —So why is it so difficult? —Because it still hurts… and I don't know how to stop missing you.

Stephen brushed a strand of hair away from her face. The minimal gesture made her tremble. The touch became a caress, the caress a clumsy, restrained embrace. Their lips met: there was no rush, only need. His hands clutched her waist; hers, tracing his neck with memory. —Stephen… —she whispered. "Shh," he snorted. "Don't say anything."

He led her toward the kitchen with reverent gentleness. She laughed as she bumped into the counter. —He's going to listen to us… "He's asleep," he replied, pushing up her blouse, urgent but tender. "This can't wait."

The kisses deepened, the sighs harder to contain. Laughter and moans mingled, wordless confessions: I missed you, I need you. The cold countertop contrasted with the warmth of their bodies. He held her as if time had never passed. "I don't know how much I missed you," he murmured, kissing her neck. She wrapped her legs around him, shivering. “I know… me too, Stephen.”

The world stopped. Only them, the silent promise of a love that remained there, hidden among guilt, desire, and low laughter. The clothes fell to the floor, leaving a pair of naked bodies facing each other.