Dinner time x

The plate sits untouched, silverware perfectly aligned, while your attention fixes on something far more appetizing across the table. Candlelight catches the curve of a bare shoulder, the deliberate looseness of fabric that wasn't accidental.

You reach over, fingers grazing warm skin before the first bite is ever taken. Dinner reservations feel suddenly irrelevant. The kitchen smells of something slow-cooked and patient — neither of you are feeling particularly patient right now.

Chairs scrape back. The meal can wait, reheated later at midnight, eaten standing over the counter, laughing. Right now the only hunger that matters has nothing to do with food.