A few days ago, Malcolm and I were out, just enjoying each other’s company. He was handling my little pause well enough—no arguments, no tension—but I could feel the frustration simmering under the surface. He wasn't mad at me. He just hated the situation.
Malcolm had never been good at waiting. Patience was not his strong suit, especially when it came to me. He liked having access, touching, taking—but now? Now, all he could do was look. It was driving him crazy.
He didn’t complain outright, but his body language spoke for him. The way he watched me, his jaw tight, his hands flexing when I leaned too close or licked salt from my fingertips. His gaze dipped lower than usual, lingering, filled with a hunger he wasn’t allowed to satisfy. It was almost funny watching him struggle. Almost.
What he hated most—more than the waiting, more than the teasing—was when I sent him to the store for pads. The man loathed that damn aisle. He swore it was designed to humiliate him, that the endless choices were a trap. He’d return, grumbling, tossing the bag at me like he’d just completed the hardest mission of his life.
“This better be right,” he’d mutter, side-eyeing me.
And every time, I’d just smile, take the bag, and let him sulk.
Even with all his frustration, he stayed. He didn’t pull away, didn’t start acting different just because he couldn’t have what he wanted. That was why I kept him around. Because even when it wasn’t easy, even when he hated the circumstances, Malcolm was still here.
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