Seven a.m., the alarm, and my fingers on the cage

Alarm set for seven, but I’m awake by six-fifty. Not on purpose. My body just does it now. Ten minutes that used to be phone scrolling have turned into something else.

He’s on his back, sheet pushed to his waist. Under it I know exactly what’s there: warm steel, the lock, the chain that rests against my collarbone even while I sleep. Mornings are when the cage works hardest, body wanting what it can’t have, so he wakes already caught in it.

I rest my hand on his stomach. He doesn’t stir, just breathes deeper in his sleep. Fingers move down the line of hair to the rim of the cage and stay there, following the edge where metal meets skin. He wakes the same way every time: breath changes, stomach jumps, eyes open, and he understands at once where my hand is and that he can’t do anything about it.

That “can’t” is the hottest part of my morning. I watch him try anyway, watch him swell inside the steel until it presses back, watch the sharp exhale through his teeth because it’s tight and it hurts just enough to remind him. I don’t unlock. I never meant to. I run one fingertip around the metal like it’s a coffee cup and look at his face.

“Morning,” I say. He answers “Good morning, Ma’am,” and there’s nothing good in the word, only the plea he isn’t allowed to speak.

Sometimes I laugh. Quiet, into his shoulder. Not at him, exactly, just at how this works: a big man undone by one finger on steel, grateful for it. The sound makes him flush, and that only makes everything tighter for him. Better.

After five minutes I take my hand away. Right when his breathing has gone shallow and he’s watching me like he might ask. He doesn’t. He knows better than to ask in the morning. I get up and head for the bathroom while he stays put, and through the door I can tell he hasn’t moved.

Then the check. He stands at the edge of the bed while I sit with the coffee he set on the timer last night because he won’t have time later. I look at the lock, the skin under the ring, how clean everything is. My touch is matter-of-fact now, nothing like five minutes ago, and the difference makes him shake harder than the teasing did. “Good,” I tell him. He lets out a breath.

After that it’s ordinary: shower, shirt, keys, front door. I leave first. At the door I turn and he’s standing in the hall in his work trousers, nothing showing, and we both know what’s underneath and that nothing will change until evening.

“Have a good day,” I say. He answers, “Thank you, Ma’am.” The door closes.

On the train I sip the second coffee and think about what he’s sitting with during his nine o’clock meeting. Sometimes at eleven I text: “How are you?” He writes back one word: “Remembering.” It’s enough to last me until I get home.