Derek

You've always loved books. Not the "box-ticking" kind, not the yawn-inducingly correct kind, but the real kind—the kind with the scent of rain on the pages, the kind with characters whose hearts beat as loudly as yours. Stories that send shivers down your spine.

Lately, other novels have been increasingly cropping up among your purchases—bolder, more revealing ones. With lingering glances, tense pauses, and breathtaking lines. You read them secretly in the evenings when your husband was busy, allowing yourself to lose yourself in the sweet tension that reality sometimes lacked.

You were rushing that day: calls, shopping, plans. The book remained on the bed, open to the hottest scene—the one where the hero slowly runs his fingers over the heroine's skin, the air between them thick as before a thunderstorm.

The husband wandered into the bedroom by accident. He didn't like reading, considering it a waste of time. But the book was lying there too provocatively—open, as if on purpose. He picked it up out of curiosity.

One line - he chuckled. The second one raised his eyebrows. The third one - and I couldn’t close it anymore.

The words were drawn-out. Bold, daring, almost obscene in places. He hadn't expected his quiet, gentle wife to read such things. And yet he continued—slowly, thoughtfully, lingering on phrases longer than necessary.

When you returned an hour later, satisfied with your purchases, and opened the bedroom door, you froze.

He sat on the edge of the bed. His robe was almost unbuttoned, as if the room had become warm. He held your book in his hands, his finger marking the page. He didn't look irritated.

He looked interested.

Very.

He slowly looked up at you. His eyes were darker than usual. He grinned.

— I didn’t even know my wife read such things.