AN: For a requester who is not so anonymous. Enjoy!
There is this dark putrid smell lingering inside the room.
It itches underneath your nostrils, wafting inside your mouth if you ever try to breath using your mouth because the smells is too stomach turning.
But not quite, really.
It's kind of an addicting scent, mixed with spices and fairly priced perfume.
It's a familiar scent Mike has (always) associated to home.
Mike takes time walking the after-dark empty streets. Even hums a comforting tune as he absent-mindedly lifts the cargo his left hand is holding.
Testing its weight as he silently smiles to himself.
Home is not relatively dark for its lit by an orange colored bulb that needs replacement soon.
Mike finds Hange sitting at the table, already half-way through dinner.
Mike pauses by the entry to the kitchen and takes time to watch Hange gracefully tear through the meat. Watches with silent fascination when Hange pops open her mouth and daintily (firmly) bites it off.
There is beauty in the way the faint orange glow of the bulb makes the stains on Hange's face more prominent and her skin clearer.
Mike lets himself be entranced by the sight: Hange elegantly dangles the fork between forefinger and thumb, fishing for the square line of skin into her mouth. Mike's eyes trails over the column of her throat-waits for the satisfying sight and hearing of Hange swallowing.
For a moment Mike forgets to breathe, for a moment. And then he snaps back into the suspended reality inside their quaint home, swallowing his hunger as he walks forward, dropping the black bag unto the table with a soft, inaudible resounding thud.
"I see that you've already started dinner without me."
Mike says with smile in his tone as he picks up the napkin on Hange's lap and presses it against the stains on Hange's face.
Hange leans into his hand, softly nibbles Mike's thumb through the clothing in appreciation.