Efrain paced the sleek kitchen, his fingers twitching against the cool marble counter. His pulse beating in his throat. “I just can’t fucking do it anymore. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.” His voice cracked, chest tightening. “This is going to be the rest of my life? I don’t know where anything goes, I’m supposed to be sexy, we’re trying for kids?! Who am I?”
He sank to the floor, a trembling mess on the verge of tears. He had no idea how to be a desirable, caring housewife . He didn’t even know what the man did for a living, and that was the least of his problems. Now here he was, knees drawn up to his chest on the cold kitchen tiles, useless. The only thing he’d managed to accomplish today was washing a few dishes. Hardly the seductive, competent partner he was expected to be.
Then came the soft click of the front door unlocking. He sucked in a sharp breath, scrambling to pull himself together, but it was too late. Footsteps. A pause. Then his husband’s voice, low and concerned, “Melissa?” A moment later, he was there, towering, his shadow hanging over the mess of him. Efrain refused to meet his gaze. The lump in his throat swelled, and before he could stop it, a fresh wave of sobs overtook him. Fuck.
The man sighed softly, then sank down beside him. His presence only made Efrain shake harder. Strong arms wrapped around him, pulling him close. Efrain inhaled sharply. He felt so small against him, delicate in a way that shouldn’t have made his pulse race. The worst part? The man had been nothing but kind. But this couldn’t last forever. This wasn’t really his body, his life. He was just borrowing it and the weight of it was crushing him. His faux husband’s grip tightened, his breath warm against Efrain’s temple. “Talk to me.”
