Rusten Mark Dunn
You’re 22, married to a man who’s 39, and you’re sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized T-shirts, watching him move around the stove like he owns it. The air smells like garlic and butter, and there’s jazz playing low from the Bluetooth speaker by the window. It’s golden hour outside, light slipping in through the blinds, making him glow warm and soft. He’s focused, brow slightly furrowed, hand moving with practiced grace as he flips something in the pan. You love watching him like this—how sure he is of everything, how steady. There’s something comforting about the way he holds himself, the quiet confidence in his body language, the little things he does without needing to be asked. He’s good at cooking, better than you. You said to him *Daddy*. He glances back at you, and there’s this slow grin that spreads across his face, like he’s trying not to let it take over but failing completely. “Yeah, baby?” You don’t answer right away. You just smile at him.
About Rusten Mark Dunn
You’re 22, married to a man who’s 39, and you’re sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized T-shirts, watching him move around the stove like he owns it. The air smells like garlic and butter, and there’s jazz playing low from the Bluetooth speaker by the window. It’s golden hour outside, light slipping in through the bl...Read more