#six 2017

The townhome feels a little too large when Joe first moves in, but he tells himself that’s only because he’d grown accustomed to the hotel room he was staying in previously. It’s a nice place: a newer build, open concept with updated appliances, vinyl flooring, and plain walls ready to be painted whatever color he wanted. He had already grabbed a few paint samples at the local hardware store, intending for this to be the first order of business to start making the space truly feel like his, but he has yet to get around to it. Perhaps unsurprisingly, work has kept him busy, and on the weeknights and weekends when he does get to sleep in his own bed, he’s too tired to do anything. The white walls are a little hard on the eyes, however, so he’d dropped by the thrift store for decent enough framed paintings to hang up. 

One is of a sailboat at sunrise, and it’s placed on the wall by the front door. He sees it in the mornings when he drinks his coffee while leaning back against the granite countertop, and he thinks about how nice it would be to float out there on calm waters, waves lapping gently at the boat, a gentle rocking encouraging him to rest. He’s long since settled into the chaos of his job, capable of enduring high intensity situations for days at a time, but after it’s all said and done and he’s driving back home with a podcast playing quietly on the speakers, he has never yearned for the peace of a painting like that more.

Even though it’s been a while since the separation, he’s still trying to get used to returning to an empty house. It made it difficult to fully relax, for he couldn’t get past the inkling that something was missing. Alex had taken him out for a drink multiple times, attempting to get him to socialize and loosen up, but it was never successful. Joe just didn’t find a night out like that a sufficient means of recharging the way Alex did; it seemed to take more energy out of him than anything. And when Alex finally accepted this was the case, he clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. You just need to find a hobby that leaves you fulfilled. Then he’d offered to bring him surfing, and Joe shrugged his hand away as Alex laughed.

After that conversation, Joe decided to return to his woodworking. He made a small end table of stained maple wood and it stays just beneath the painting of the sailboat. On top of it is a thrifted lamp and a bowl for his keys. This outlet for his creativity certainly helps, and while he’s not fully settled in, he knows he’ll get there, slowly but surely.

The cup of coffee he’s brewed this morning is perfect, and he sips at it as he looks at the painting and the end table in the living room, as he usually does. His gaze slides over to the window, the blinds having been opened to let the daylight in, when he sees a moving truck pass by. From here, he can still see the back of it where it has pulled over on the curb; it’s parked in front of the house next door.

His townhome had been one of two available units in this community, both previous owners deciding to sell at the same time. The other was slower to sell, and while Joe never saw any real estate agents showing it to interested buyers, he owed that to the fact he was probably out of town when they were. He’d had an idea in his mind that he could get a look at the people who were thinking about buying and guess whether they would be good neighbors.The neighbor he already has on his opposite side is nice enough, friendly and quiet, minding his own business, so Joe only hopes whoever is moving in is much the same. 

He sees who it is when he’s leaving for work an hour later, walking down the front steps towards his truck just as you hop out from the back of the U-Haul. You’re dressed comfortably in sweats and a hoodie, hair tied up to keep it out of your face. You and a couple of other people are carrying boxes from the truck into the house, but then you notice him just on the other side of the fence and smile.

“Hi!” you call out. You lift a hand to wave, but the box you’re holding is seemingly a bit heavy and it nearly tumbles to the ground when you do that. You quickly lower your hand back down to steady it, laughing sheepishly.

Joe smiles politely, waving back. “Morning.”

That’s the extent of the exchange, as you’re clearly preoccupied with unloading and he’s clearly on his way to work. He pulls out of the driveway with one more glance over at you. He wonders if you’re the only one moving in and if you might feel the space is a little too large for you too.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Joe finds out the answer just a couple of days later. It’s Saturday and he’d fallen asleep on the couch by accident last night. Work had wrapped up at a reasonable time and he took a raincheck on drinks with the guys, preferring to enjoy some time alone and relax. That was supposed to look like an ice cold beer and a replay of the Thursday night game he missed, but he only got as far as one sip of the beer and five minutes of the first quarter before he dozed off.

The doorbell wakes him up and he rubs a hand over his face, blinking away the last remnants of sleep. The television displays the home screen and the beer, still full and at room temperature and seeming very sad, is on the side table where he left it. 

“Just a minute!” he calls out before whoever’s at the door tries to ring the bell again. His voice is gruff so he clears his throat as he stands. He’s not sure what time it is, so he’d like to make it appear as if he hadn’t been sleeping, in case it’s later in the morning. Or afternoon? Geez, he hopes not. He’s been tired recently but he doesn’t think he’s been that tired.

He opens the door to see you on the other side. A full head shorter than he, you’re in a matching powder blue linen set, still dressed for comfort but with more intention than the outfit you’d worn on move-in day. But your smile is still the same, eager and bright and in close competition with the sun which has fully risen behind you, beckoning in what is quickly looking to be a beautiful day.

“Hi! I’m [Name]. I moved in next door”--you nudge your head in the direction of your house–“though I suppose you already know that.” You chuckle and hold a hand out. “I just wanted to drop by and say a quick hello.”

Joe smiles and takes your hand, shaking it firmly. It’s so soft compared to his. He tells you his name and says it’s nice to meet you. “Hope you got settled in all right.”

“Yeah!” you respond with a nod. “Still unpacking, but I’m getting comfortable. My cat, not so much. She needs a little extra time.” You laugh lightly. Joe’s chest tightens slightly at the sound, just for a moment, and then it relaxes, like a sigh.

He chuckles. “Well hopefully she takes a liking to the place too.”

You’ve also brought a small gift, and before he even registers what you’re holding he thinks that’s very sweet of you to do. It’s chocolate chip cookies, arranged neatly in a cellophane bag and closed with a pink ribbon. Very sweet of you indeed. Baked them myself! You stand straighter when you state that, clearly proud of your work.

He takes the bag with an earnest thank you and notices small scratches on your wrist and the back of your hand. No doubt the handiwork of your cat. After a bit more small talk about where you’ve moved from (only a few towns over, so you’re familiar with the area; you moved to be closer to your new place of work), you part with friendly goodbyes and see-you-around’s. 

Joe watches you walk down the steps and towards the sidewalk so you can return to your house. This isn’t how he’d anticipated his day starting, but he certainly won’t complain. It’s a relief to know his new neighbor is as agreeable as the one on the other side, and you’re easy on the eyes to boot. So it’s with only a hint of resistance that he hopes, just a tiny bit, that you won’t fully mind your own business and maybe mind a little bit of his too.

There’s six cookies. He tries one and barely suppresses a groan at the richness of it. You definitely had cause to look proud when you said you baked them. And so, having been thoroughly vetted, he brings the remaining five with him to work on Monday to share with the rest of the guys. Consider it an apology for not going out on Friday.

Alex doesn’t miss the pink ribbon, but then again, could they call themselves SEALs if they didn’t notice the details? “Who gave you these?”

“New neighbor.”

The curiosity in Alex’s eyes shifts and is replaced with something a little more mischievous. “And?”

Joe knows what he means but plays dumb anyway, not entirely willing to answer. “And what?”

“Is she cute?” Robert elaborates before Alex does, smile slowly growing on his face. It’s rare their leader is ever flustered, so it’s enough of a treat to see him like this and give him a little ribbing.

Joe shrugs, nods once. “She’s all right.”

Ricky pats him on the back before reaching into the bag for a cookie. “That’s Bear speak for very cute.”

The others laugh, and Joe speaks up to be heard above their teasing. “And too young for me, let’s just get that straight right now.”

Alex doesn’t look convinced. “I dunno, man, chicks these days dig older guys.”

“And what if I don’t have a thing for younger women?” Joe asks, brow raised like he’s gotten the last word in. “What then?”

Alex is unshaken. “You don’t sound like you believe a word you’re saying.”

The teasing resumes, and Joe can only sigh and let the guys have their fun. Partly because they’re never ones to let a chance to rag on each other pass, and partly because Alex might be right. You’re not so young that he’d view you as a kid, you have moved into a townhome alone and with a good career to pay for it after all, but he’s confident you’re at least ten years younger, and while such a gap is not totally questionable, it still feels strange. The only relationship he’d been in previously was with a woman only a couple years his junior, so the fact your ages don’t even start with the same number leaves him hesitant to acknowledge you as anything more than the friendly neighbor who can bake really well.

It’s difficult though, and through no effort on your part. You wave every time you spot him, usually when you’re getting home from work just as he is, though in his case, he tends to be returning after a few days away, sometimes several. He told you he’s in the Navy and his job has him out of town for days at a time, but he never got more specific than that. You could tell he kept it vague on purpose, so you didn’t pry. Thank you for your service, is all you’d said, having returned at a later time to give him brownies since he mentioned enjoying the cookies, and he’d like for you to maybe thank him in another way.

Such thoughts come a little too easily for comfort, and he tries his hardest to push them away. You’re too young he reasons (you’re not). You’re just being polite when you bring over baked goods he considers (you don’t do that with anyone else). And then, when he’s exhausted the list of excuses, he settles on You’d never return those feelings anyway. It doesn’t matter what Alex had said. You may not be one of the women to fall under that umbrella, and Joe sure as hell isn’t willing to compromise what is an amicable, arms distance friendship just to find out.

Besides, you’re at the age where you seem to be mostly focused on your career. You work remotely a couple days a week and he can see your home office from the kitchen window. Between operations, when he’s home in the middle of the week, he spots you there, sometimes with a headset on for meetings. You’re lasered in on the tasks at hand, and your cat stays close by, napping in the tree you’ve put in there for her. 

And it’s pure, honest to God coincidence that he’s seen you bring guys home on a few separate occasions. They all appeared to be around your age, which was another point against you potentially liking someone like him. You’ve probably got a lot of energy to burn, and though his line of work keeps him fit, maybe it’s not enough to keep up. (He’d still like to try though.)

He thinks about what you might sound like in the throes of passion, if you’d try to keep quiet or let it out freely. He envisions the bliss etched across your features; the softness of your skin pressed against him; how warm you’d feel as he pushes into you. Would you hold him close, hook your legs around his hips, and beg for more? The space between you is an ocean and he envisions himself to be in your bedroom with you, not some random guy you probably picked up at the bar. But instead, he’s in his bed alone, staring up at the ceiling with a raging hard-on and begrudging the fact you leave him feeling, quite embarrassingly, like a horny teenager.

You continue to drop by with homemade treats every now and then, which Joe deeply appreciates (and so do the guys, since you always make enough for him to bring for them after he mentioned having a team). And one day when you come by on your lunch break, and he has rationalized his next action as just being a good neighbor, he invites you inside to chat and eat the food you brought. He half expects you not to accept it, but you do. 

It turns into a regular occurrence from there, and it’s nice for what it is, nothing more, nothing deeper. He likes your company and learning more about you. You’re far removed from his job, and he feels like he can relax around you. It’s nice to not have to play the role of captain. And this space, here within these four walls, doesn't seem to feel too large whenever you’re around.

The realization doesn’t help his feelings, but he knows he can’t take it back now. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy having you here. A small part of him may regret having said anything at all that first time he invited you in, but you seem to genuinely enjoy your time together too, and he would never regret being responsible for something that makes you happy. Now, whether it crossed the line into infatuation for you the way that it does–has been–for him, he can’t say.

Eventually he breaks. What does him in is the sight of you one afternoon, sunbathing in the backyard. He didn’t mean to look, truly. But the window in his bedroom can see down into your yard, and with the weather starting to warm up, you’ve begun to take advantage of the sunlight to start your tan for the summer. You look so good in your swimsuit; it doesn’t cover much, probably to maximize your tan, and he wonders faintly if you’d wear something so revealing at a public pool or the beach. A twinge of jealousy runs through him at the idea of anyone else seeing you like that, and it’s quickly followed up by a twinge of shame, for you aren’t even his to grow jealous over.

But he imagines you to be, as he’s thinking more about what he’d seen later that evening, thinking about what’s beneath the bits of fabric so tiny it’s a wonder they could be considered swimwear. He’d like to tear it off and indulge in the feeling, the taste of you. Hot and wet and sweet like the sliced watermelon you had been helping yourself to, juices running down your chin. He thinks about doing it right there in your backyard, too impatient to usher you inside. And he can’t help jerking off to imagery so intense, wishing it was your hand wrapped around him as you coo My big Bear, watching him with big eyes and licking your lips and then he comes undone.

He’s breathing heavy, heart pounding and looking at his cum on his hand. What are you doing to me? he wonders.

The next time you knock on his door during your lunch break, you’ve brought with you a small cheesecake. Joe smiles and opens the door wider to let you in.

“That’s new,” he remarks as he grabs a couple of small plates and forks.

“I wanted to learn how to make it, and this is my first one, so let’s hope it’s good!” you state with a laugh.

“I’m sure it will be.” He hands you a knife to cut a couple of slices with, standing closer than he usually does. 

When you look up to say thanks, you appear to be keenly aware of this too, for he notices the way your breath hitches slightly as you have to tilt your head back more. You swallow, and his eyes drop to the column of your throat. “Thank you.”

He hums and then steps away to the dining table to move the stack of mail out of the way and clear space. While he does so, he sneaks a glance up at you. You’re biting your lip as you slice the cake, and he surmises if you worry it any harder you might make it bleed.

You bring both plates over and he says thank you before you both try a bite. It tastes wonderful, as to be expected, and he tells you as much. You smile warmly, pleased with yourself. 

The two of you fall into easy conversation, like usual, but something more hangs in the air between you now. His forwardness had served to test the waters, and you hadn’t moved away. In fact, he notices you scoot a little closer than normal. He’d been sitting back in his chair but opts to lean forward instead, and at this distance, you speak more quietly. You seem more distracted, and satisfaction settles within him to have you acting like this.

You look down at his lips just for a second but he doesn’t miss it. But before either of you can do anything, you clear your throat and stand up, offering to wash the dishes. 

“You don’t have to,” he assures. He always says that, but you always insist, as you do now. 

“No, it’s okay, it isn’t a lot anyway.” You grin. He wants to kiss it off. Fuck it off. Something.

You reach over to pick up his plate, but before you can, he sets a hand on the back of your thigh. You’re in a sundress, something easily thrown on for a quick walk next door before you’re due back at your home office to finish the work day. He leaves his hand where it is, waiting to see what you would do. If you pulled back, he’d know where you stood on your relationship, and while he’d be disheartened, if you were willing to forget that any of this happened, he could put it behind him too.

But you do no such thing. Your breaths are shallower and you can’t meet his eyes, your own staring hard at the table. When you finally dare to, he holds your gaze as his hand slides higher. His fingers meet the seam of your panties and he squeezes the plump flesh of your ass. You fail to squash down a whimper, and his dick twitches.

Hand still on your ass, he pulls you towards him, and it causes you to stumble onto his lap. You settle down more comfortably with your thighs on either side of his and he moves to set his hands on your hips. You brace yourself with hands on his shoulders, and still watching each other, you start to grind your hips along the rough denim of his jeans.

He lets you set the pace, lifting the hem of your dress so he can see where you’re pressed together. He groans at the sight, the thin fabric of your panties allowing you to feel the friction easily against your core. You moan lightly with each pass of the denim over your clit, growing wetter, and you might stain his jeans but he doesn’t care. 

Your head drops back as the pleasure grows, focusing on the coil tightening in the pit of your stomach. Joe takes advantage of the planes of skin now exposed to him and runs his lips along your throat, where he can feel the vibration of each of your hushed cries. The scent of your vanilla perfume is intoxicating, and both his hands are back on your hips to help you move. That’s it, he murmurs. Just like that.

You’re close now, evidenced by the fact you grind down harder. Head lifting back up, you hold onto his thick forearm for support and wrap your other arm around his neck. You lean your forehead against his and your lips brush but never fully meet. Your short breaths are hot and labored, determined as you are to cum. His hands move from your hips to your ass and with the extra leverage, he pulls you along his crotch even more harshly. 

“Fuck.” You mewl, trying to meet his gaze but the sensations are overwhelming and your eyes slide closed, brows furrowing.

“Look at me,” he grunts.

Clearly so eager to please, you open your eyes and do your best to keep them on him. They’re clouded with pleasure and desperation and Joe’s never seen anything so pretty. He lets out a breathy chuckle. Gonna cum, sweet girl?

You nod quickly, unable to speak, and then you still with a choked moan. Your thighs squeeze together as much as they can in this position and you quiver, folding over into yourself slightly as you climax. Joe’s right on the edge, so he keeps you moving, grinding back and forth, and you cry out at the extra stimulation you’re being subjected to before you’ve fully come down. 

Your almost pitiful whimpers are what push him over, and he groans lowly. He feels warmth on the crotch of his jeans and knows he’ll need a shower and fresh clothes. But for now, the two of you remain in each other’s embrace for a minute as you both catch your breath. You’re the first one to pull away, untangling yourself and standing up. You stumble slightly and Joe feels a sense of pride.

“I, um…” You clear your throat. “I’ve gotta go home and log back in.”

You look so innocent for what has just transpired, even with mussed up hair and tired eyes. You smooth out your sundress, trying to make it look presentable again, but luckily you don’t have a far walk.

“Let me walk you out,” Joe insists. But he finds he can’t get up quite yet, still trying to calm down and gather the strength in his legs to stand. Also, his pants feel uncomfortably wet. “Just give me a second.”

You smile sweetly as you look at him and reach out to set a hand on his cheek. He sets his hand over yours, thumb stroking the skin, and the moment is tender, the complete opposite of just a few minutes prior. “It’s okay, I’ll lock the door behind me.”

He surveys you for any sign that you regret what’s happened, but there are none. Your gaze is soft and you look reluctant to drop your hand back to your side. You rub your thighs together, and he feels himself hardening again at the thought of your soaked panties. He’d like to peel them off.

But alas, that would have to wait for another time. He nods and lets you go, watching as you turn the lock and close the door gently. Then he heaves a contented sigh. He might’ve felt like he was out of his depth where it concerned you, but you didn’t seem to think so, and all his concerns and doubt are washed away in a wave of relief, replaced with possibility. And it feels damn good.

He knows you log out at 4:30, so he walks up to your front door at 4:35. The events earlier in the day left him simultaneously fulfilled yet wanting more, and he’d like to be more thorough. It’s Friday, which means more time to do just that.

After he rings the bell, he’s not left waiting long before you open it and grab his hand to drag him inside. It seems you felt the same way. He barely pushes the door behind him when you tiptoe to press your lips to his in an overdue kiss. He meets you with the same energy, arms wrapping around your waist and holding you tight to him.

The low hum of the radio masked the sound of the lock clicking open, the muffled thud of his duffle bag hitting the carpet as he discarded it alongside the weight of the last couple of months. The air inside always felt fresher somehow; the light always warmer. Stepping into your shared house, Joe was immediately surrounding by the feeling of home.

It was a Sunday, so he knew you’d be home, either stress cleaning or baking an absurd amount that you’d end up taking to work or giving away to the neighbours. You knew he was coming home, you just didn’t know when, and that period no contact that preceded his arrival always made you anxious, the silence deafening as your mind circled through every possible eventuality.

He tugged off his boots, not wanting to risk the potentially freshly-cleaned floors, even though he knew you wouldn’t ever be upset about it. It’s just dirt, you’d shrug, it’s not worth stressing over. It wasn’t something he ever remembered telling you, but somehow you just knew – you seemed to know where all his scars were, all the wounds his last relationship (his only relationship, before you) had left on him, all the I just cleaned that, Joseph’s and no, Joseph, that’s not where that goes, the millions of little things that made him feel like a trespasser in his own home. But never with you. From the second you had moved in together you’d made it clear that this was his house as much as yours, asking his opinion on everything from where the plates should go to what colour the cushions should be. He wasn’t sure he’d ever thought about cushion colours in his life. You could’ve picked fuchsia for all he cared – home to him never about the way the couch faced or the street it was on, home was a person. One person – you.

He found you in the kitchen, exactly as expected, radio playing just loud enough to be heard over the sound of running water as you washed up what looked like every bowl and spoon you owned. As expected, you appeared to have made enough cakes to feed a small army; a couple on the bench cooling, another on the counter ready to be baked, and one in the oven, filling the kitchen with the sweet scent of baking, tinged only with the slightly sourness he felt for making you worry. The guilt he felt each time he left you never truly subsided, even with all your reassurances that you knew what you were signing up for, that you’d worry about him whether he was in Afghanistan or just at the local shops. That’s what happens when you love someone, you’d once told him. I’m worried because I care, because I don’t want to lose you. And I’m going to keep worrying about you, whether you like it or not.

The idea of coming home to someone who cared, who worried about him, was something he’d long since abandoned. Back when each homecoming had felt like jumping from the frying pan to the fire; going from an active war zone into a minefield. In those days he’d started to dread going home, all of his senses on high alert, anticipating every possible angle of attack much as he did in the field. He hadn’t realised at the time just how much it was draining him – the constant fights, the constant blame, the constant demand for him to give more than he could whilst receiving nothing in return. It had felt as though he could never let down his guard, never be allowed to breathe.

But seeing you was was like breathing in that first lungful of air after being held underwater. Like the weight of not only the last deployment, but the last decade had finally been lifted from him. Watching you standing there, your body swaying ever so slightly, your voice softly singing along, almost as though you weren’t aware you were doing it, bathed in warm sunlight from the window in front of you – it felt like peace.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, letting himself bask in the quiet comfort of home, letting your presence bring him back down to earth, to something more human. But at some point during his musings the tap had been switched off; the last bowl stacked neatly on the drying rack; the spoon you’d been clutching clattering the floor as you came face to face with him for the first time in months.

The fond smile he’d been wearing quickly grew into a full grin as he watched the different emotions flicker through your eyes – the initial fear and shock quickly replaced with the look that was solely reserved for him, warm and soft and tender. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the way you looked at him, the way your eyes lit up whenever they met his. It was like being a teenager again, the rush of butterflies in his stomach, the almost bashful feeling that took over him, wanted to duck his eyes away like he was embarrassed to be caught staring. But he could stare, as much as he wanted, because you were here, in your shared kitchen, looking at him like his presence was the reason for the sun shining.

“Joe!”

Your first reaction, instead of scolding him for scaring you like he’d been expecting, was to launch yourself at him, giving him barely enough time to catch you, to stop both of you from falling over, before your arms were around his neck, your lips on his.

It was always easy to lose himself in kissing you; but after so much time apart, kissing you was like feeling the sunlight on your face after a long, dark winter, thawing out his frozen limbs and making the world seem soft and golden again. Holding your body against his, soft and solid and real, was grounding, bringing him back to the here and now and reminding him that he was still alive, you were still alive, and here, with him.

You pulled apart reluctantly, both of you needing air, but neither willing to break the bubble you’d enveloped yourselves in. You stayed close to each other, lips just barely brushing, the air around you humid with your shared breaths, your eyes never straying from the other’s.

“You’re back.” You breathed, like it wasn’t quite real until you’d spoken the words aloud. He simply gave you a tired smile, causing your eyes to slowly drift from his, your brows pinching slightly as you scanned across his face as though you could see right through him. Sometimes he believed you could, the way you always seemed to know what he needed, what he left unspoken. But right now he didn’t want to worry you; he didn’t want to burden you with the things he’d seen and the shadows that still clung to him, stubbornly holding on despite the light of your presence. Right now, he just wanted you.

“’m okay.” he said, dipping his head, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb tracing over your cheekbone in a comforting manner, answering your silent question. It was the same each time he returned; the excitement and relief of having him home was quickly surpassed by your caring nature, examining him for any new marks, even the smallest bumps or bruises, before moving on to the wounds on his soul. It would be hours before you’d so much as mention a single thing that had happened to you whilst he’d been gone, so focused on him and his wellbeing that it barely occurred to you that he’d been just as consumed by your wellbeing when you were apart. Every time you did so, he found himself filled with the all-consuming need to show you just how much your love meant to him, and just how much he loved you in return.

Reassured that he truly was okay, you step back slightly, not enough to leave his arms but just enough to allow you to shake off the haze that always came with being so close to him, slipping back into to the well worn path of the caretaker, but this time, he wouldn’t let you. This time, he wanted to take care of you – to show you just how grateful he was to come home to you.

“I didn’t know if you’d be back in time or not, but I made your favourite and saved you some just in case. Are you hungry? I can make you something to eat if you’d prefer-” He watched you ramble with a fondness in his eyes, before cutting you off with a kiss; his hand moving to grip your neck, tilting your head up to allow him to kiss you deeper, his tongue sweeping into your mouth.

When he pulled away, you were breathless, eyes glazed, and his lips twitched up into a smirk at the state he’d left you in. He loved being able to make you look as drunk as he felt in your presence, and he had plans to leave you feeling well and truly wrecked.

“I can think of something else I’d rather eat.” He grinned, sweeping you into his arms. You shrieked playfully, smile never leaving your lips.

“Joe!” you giggled, slapping his arm lightly but otherwise making no move to escape his hold. “At least let me turn the oven off!”

Needless to say, your coworkers wouldn’t be seeing that one.