Pulse
2026-04-16 — Pulse
The smoke detector in the hallway chirped at 2:14 a.m. and Dave was out of bed before Sam fully registered the sound, pulling a t-shirt over his head as he walked, cursing softly in the hallway dark. "It's the middle of the goddamn night," he said to no one, to the ceiling, to the stupid plastic disc above his head. Sam appeared in the doorway of the bedroom in one of his old henleys, hair loose on one side, face still soft from almost-sleep. She leaned against the jamb and watched him drag the kitchen chair down the hall. "They never do it during the day," she said. "Have you noticed that. It's like they wait." "They wait." "They're sentient and they hate us." He climbed onto the chair and she stood below him, arms folded, and he was aware — even like this, at 2 a.m., stepping on a chair in his underwear to silence a smoke detector — that she was looking at him. Not the way she looked …
2026-04-15 — Pulse
The box from FedEx sat on Sam's kitchen island for forty-three minutes before she opened it, because she was on a call with a vendor in Austin who kept saying "circle back" like it was a verb he'd personally invented, and because she wanted the privacy of knowing Dave was already off work when she finally cut the tape. Phoenix, 5:17 p.m. The swamp cooler hummed. Outside the sliders, the saguaros threw long shadows across the gravel and the pool turned that chlorine-aqua that only exists in April, before the heat gets mean. She poured a glass of something white and cold, not because she wanted it but because holding it gave her hands a reason. She FaceTimed him before she pulled the flaps apart. "You're home," she said. "I'm home." Dave was on his couch in Virginia, 8:17 his time, no shirt, a towel still around his neck from the shower. Bald head still shower-damp. That steadiness in his…
2026-04-14 — Pulse
The FedEx envelope on Dave's kitchen counter had Sam's handwriting on it, and his name, and no return address, which meant she'd sent it from the airport on Monday before her flight and he wasn't supposed to open it until tonight. Tuesday. 7:14 p.m. He was standing at the counter in a worn-out Henley and jeans, a beer sweating on the granite, and his phone face-up next to the envelope showing a text from twenty minutes ago: landed. armpit of hell. miss u so bad it's stupid. He'd written back: open it yet? Waiting for you to FaceTime dummy. That's the rule. The rule. He almost laughed. She'd made up a rule to give herself a reason to call. He thumbed the video icon. She picked up on the second ring and she was in her bed already, hair wet from the shower, an oversized t-shirt slipping off one shoulder. The overhead light off. Just the lamp. Her face close to the camera so he could …
2026-04-13 — Pulse
The hardware store on a Saturday afternoon smelled like cut pine and rubber, and Sam was three aisles ahead of Dave, holding a paint chip up to the fluorescent light like she was reading scripture. "This one," she called back, without turning around. "Or the one next to it. I can't tell anymore." He came up behind her slow, hand finding the small of her back the way it always did — palm flat, thumb riding the waistband of her jeans. She didn't lean into it. She didn't need to. She just kept holding the paint chip up. "They're the same color, Sam." "They are not the same color." "Linen. Bone. Same color." "This is why I drive." He laughed, low, and let his hand slide an inch lower than it needed to. She glanced sideways at him, mouth caught between amused and something else, and he watched her pulse jump once at her throat before she looked back at the paint. They were supposed to be pic…
2026-04-12 — Pulse
The hallway carpet has that pattern hotels everywhere agree on — burgundy and gold doing battle in shapes designed to hide stains — and Dave is walking it slower than he needs to because he wants to remember the walk. Door 412. He passes a housekeeping cart parked outside 408, smells the laundered-towel chemical of it, hears a TV through somebody's wall doing a sports highlight. His duffel knocks softly against his hip. He's been thinking, the whole drive in, about the voicemail he left her this morning — the one where he kept saying love it love it love it like he'd lost the thread of his own sentence — and how she'd texted back just 🥹 and nothing else, because nothing else was needed. He knocks twice, light. She opens it before the second knock has finished and she's barefoot, in one of those soft gray tee-shirts she steals from her own drawer when she's nervous, hair still damp a…
2026-04-11 — Pulse
The flight lands at 9:47, which is twelve minutes late, which Dave has been tracking obsessively since he pulled into cell phone lot and killed the engine and realized he had nothing to do but sit there with his hands on the wheel like he'd never picked anyone up from an airport before. He hasn't, really. Not like this. Not her, not this version of the drive where he already knows what she smells like under the collar and what her breathing does when she's about to come. Tucson at night is dry heat giving up its ghost against the windshield. He watches the parking lights flick over his forearms and tries not to think about the last four years reduced to this — twelve minutes late, one more sleep turned into one more text, one more turn of the wheel. His phone buzzes. At baggage. Then, I see your car. She knows his car. She knows the way he stands, the way his jaw does that thing whe…
2026-04-10 — Pulse
The sex shop on Speedway has that industrial fluorescence you only see in dentist offices and places that don't want you to get comfortable browsing. Monday afternoon, two days early, and Sam is standing in the lube aisle holding a bottle of something water-based and reading the back of it like it's a prospectus. "You are not actually reading the ingredients," Dave says. "I read everything." She turns the bottle. "You know this about me." "I know this about you." He's standing close enough behind her that when she shifts her weight back she finds his chest, and then stays there, a breath too long, before she moves forward again. They flew in this morning. She picked him up from Tucson International at ten. They've been in the same air for six hours and there is a specific kind of hum happening under her skin that she has not successfully identified on any form of public transport or in …
2026-04-09 — Pulse
The dog park on Alvernon closes at sunset, which gives them maybe forty minutes, and Lexi is using every one of them to recover her dignity. She keeps shooting Sam these betrayed little glances from the other end of the leash, still tasting whatever she threw up in the car that morning, and Sam keeps murmuring I know, baby, I know in the voice she uses when she's actually apologizing to someone else. "She's gonna hold this against you for years," Dave says. He's on the bench, one ankle crossed over his knee, sunglasses pushed up on his bald head. He got in at noon. They went to lunch. She barely ate. He watched her not eat and didn't say anything. "She already does." Sam drops down next to him, closer than the bench requires. Her thigh lines up against his. "Look at her. That's a grudge face." "That's a I-was-promised-a-better-life face." "Same thing." The sun is low and the air has t…
2026-04-08 — Pulse
The body shop on Route 50 smelled like primer and old coffee, and Dave had been sitting in the plastic chair for forty minutes pretending to read a pamphlet about paintless dent repair when his phone buzzed against his thigh. stuck in a 1:1 with fuckface. save me He smiled at the pamphlet. Typed back: can't. in the waiting room of emerson's purgatory. you're on your own, sweetpea. Three dots. Then: dave he is literally still talking and i am literally going to combust combust quietly. professionally. i want to be a housewife. i want to fold your shirts and be stupid. He laughed, out loud, and the guy across from him glanced up from his phone. Dave tipped his head in apology and turned his screen down on his knee. Outside the plate-glass window a kid in coveralls was backing Emerson's Civic into the bay, the bumper hanging like a loose tooth. He'd been up since six, had already…
2026-04-07 — Pulse
The training room at the Marriott smelled like hotel carpet and burnt coffee, and Sam had been staring at the same slide about Q3 product roadmap for nine minutes. Her knee hurt. The air conditioning was set to something industrial. She tucked her hands inside the sleeves of her sweater and tried to look like a person who cared about funnel conversion. Her phone buzzed face-down on the table. you cold in there? She smiled before she could stop herself. The woman to her left, some senior rep from Denver with a pinched mouth, glanced over. Sam let the smile dissolve into neutral professionalism and flipped the phone into her lap. freezing. bored. knee hurts. poor baby. making myself happy by thinking about you naked tho A pause. Three dots. Then: that so. mhm what part She looked up. The presenter was gesturing at a graph. Somewhere in the back, a man coughed. Sam tilted the…
2026-04-06 — Pulse
The dental hygienist's name was Kelly and she had been scraping at Dave's lower incisors for what felt like half an hour when his phone, face-down on his chest under the paper bib, buzzed three times in quick succession. "Sorry," he mumbled around the suction tube. "All you, hon." He thumbed it on, tilting the screen toward his face, and there she was — Sam, on her stomach in his grey shirt, the hem rucked up to her waist, a slice of her bare ass and the soft seam between her thighs visible at the bottom of the frame. The caption said: just thinking about you at the dentist. pain for pain, babe. He locked the phone so fast Kelly probably thought he'd been electrocuted. "You okay?" "Mm-hm. Yep." The drive back from the office was forty minutes and he spent thirty-eight of them hard in his jeans, stopped at every red light staring at the photo on his passenger seat like a man reading a …
2026-04-05 — Pulse
The dog is having none of it. Bear sits planted on the bathroom tile, wet to the shoulders and nowhere else, looking at Dave with the weary patience of a creature who has survived thirty-six previous versions of this. "Buddy. Come on." Dave is on his knees on a towel, sleeves shoved to the elbows, shampoo suds climbing his forearms. His phone is propped on the closed toilet lid on speaker, the Saturday morning quiet of his apartment broken only by Sam's voice coming through tinny and amused. "Are you grooming a dog right now." "I'm attempting to." "On speaker." "You called." "I called to tell you I bought sleep gummies." She yawns. He hears her stretch — a small sound, cloth against sheet. It's eleven her time, still morning. He can picture her perfectly, and does: in his shirt probably, hair a mess, the phone balanced on her chest. "Did they work? I don't remember falling asleep." "Tha…
2026-04-04 — Pulse
The house Christian wants is on a cul-de-sac in North Phoenix, white stucco, red tile, a pool Sam can see through the side gate when she gets there fifteen minutes early. She parks under a palo verde and sits in the car with the AC running and the radio off, looking at the house her husband wants them to buy so he can pretend, for a few more months, that this isn't ending. Her phone buzzes against her thigh. Dave. You there yet? Sitting in the driveway. He's late. How are you? She thinks about it. Types, deletes. Types again. Weird. Not sad weird. Just weird. Easiest breakup in history, he writes back. Still counts as a breakup, baby. She closes her eyes. The AC pushes cold air across her bare knees. She is wearing a sundress because it's ninety-one degrees in April and because if she were going to look at a house with Dave she'd want to look good, and her body hasn't quite …
2026-04-03 — Pulse
The charity dinner runs long the way all charity dinners run long — a silent auction nobody's bidding on, a slideshow with a stuck slide, the emcee clearing his throat into a microphone that squeals each time. Dave has been nursing the same iced tea for an hour. There's no bar. He keeps checking his phone under the table like a teenager. Save me, he'd texted Sam at seven. I'm in Arizona, she'd written back. What exactly do you want me to do about it. Think of something. She had sent him a photo then. Just her mouth, lipstick half-chewed off, the corner of a pillow, and underneath it: two days left before abstinence. you sure you want to waste them on rubber chicken? That was forty minutes ago. He's read it six times. His phone's face-down on the tablecloth now because he can't trust himself to look at it in the same room as a man giving a speech about watershed conservation. W…
2026-04-02 — Pulse
The massage therapist had hands like a sadist with a mortgage, and Sam left the spa feeling like a wrung-out dishtowel that had been tenderized and then blessed. It was nine-fifteen on a Thursday. Her hair was still damp at the nape from the hot towel. The parking lot smelled like eucalyptus and asphalt and somebody's cigarette two spaces over, and she sat in her car with the key in her lap and pulled up Dave's name before she'd fully decided to. FaceTime? The three dots came back immediately. Yeah. Home? Almost. She drove the fifteen minutes with the windows cracked because her skin still felt too warm from the oil they'd used, that lavender stuff that made her think of Dave's sheets, which made her think of Dave's mouth, which made her think about how nine days and eighteen hours had become, by some mercy of the calendar, eight days and twenty-two. She counted it on her fingers …
2026-04-01 — Pulse
--- Sam was already half-way through her grocery list when Dave texted, "Meet me in the produce section." The message made her smile, a mix of anticipation and the familiar thrill that always accompanied their encounters. She finished grabbing the last few items and made her way to the colorful chaos of fruits and vegetables. Dave was leaning against a display of apples, his bald head glinting under the fluorescent lights. He looked up as she approached, his eyes lingering on her with that quiet intensity that never failed to make her heart race. "Hey," he said, his voice low and warm. "I thought we could pick out some melons together." Sam raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. "Melons, huh? Isn't that a bit... obvious?" Dave chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Maybe. But I have a feeling today is going to be all about obvious pleasures." He reached o…
2026-03-31 — Pulse
The sun dipped low over the Phoenix skyline, casting an orange glow through the tinted windows of the cafe where Sam sat, her laptop open to a spreadsheet that blurred into meaningless numbers. She tapped her pen against the edge of the table, her mind a million miles away from the quarterly reports that demanded her attention. Her phone buzzed with a text from Dave, and her heart skipped a beat as she read his message. "Hey you. How's your day treating you?" Sam smirked, her fingers hovering over the keyboard before she typed a reply. "Same as always. Numbers and meetings. You?" She hit send and took a sip of her now-lukewarm coffee, her eyes drifting to the window. The bustling city street below seemed to move in slow motion, and she found herself wishing she could trade places with any of the passersby, just to escape the monotony of her day. Dave's response came almost instantly. "S…
2026-03-30 — Pulse
The sun hung low in the sky as Dave pulled his SUV into the gravel parking lot of the old cabin. Sam's car was already there, a dusty sedan that seemed to fit perfectly with the rustic surroundings. Dave cut the engine and took a deep breath, the scent of pine and earth filling his lungs. He had been looking forward to this weekend for weeks, ever since their playful morning conversations turned to promises of intimacy and relaxation. He grabbed his duffel bag from the backseat and made his way to the cabin, the crunch of gravel under his feet echoing in the quiet. As he approached the door, he could hear soft music playing from inside, and his heart rate picked up. He knocked lightly, and the door swung open to reveal Sam, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a simple white t-shirt and cutoff jeans that showed off her legs. "Hey you," she said, her voice warm and inviting. "I w…
2026-03-29 — Pulse
The rain pattered against the windows of the small café nestled in a quiet corner of downtown Phoenix. Sam sat at a table by the window, sipping her latte as she watched the droplets race down the glass. She had been waiting for nearly an hour, her nerves building with each passing minute. The conversation with Dave this morning had been charged with anticipation, their voices laced with a promise that hung heavy in the air. "I can't fucking wait," she had whispered, her words echoing in her mind. The door to the café swung open, and there he was, his broad shoulders shrugging off the rain as he stepped inside. Dave's eyes scanned the room, landing on Sam with an intensity that made her breath catch. He walked over, his stride confident and purposeful, and pulled out the chair across from her. "Sorry I'm late," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. "Traffic …
2026-03-28 — Pulse
Sam's car pulled into the gravel lot of the old bowling alley, the headlights cutting through the dusky evening. The place was mostly abandoned now, a relic from a time when Dave and Sam were just kids. They had driven out here on a whim, escaping the weight of the day and the persistent hum of Sam's headache. Inside, the fluorescent lights flickered to life, illuminating the dusty lanes and the faded posters on the walls. "Remember when we used to come here?" Dave asked, his voice echoing slightly in the empty space. He set down the six-pack of beer they had picked up on the way, the bottles clinking softly against the worn countertop. Sam nodded, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Yeah, we were so young. It feels like a lifetime ago." Dave walked over to her, his steps measured and calm. He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers linger…
2026-03-27 — Pulse
Sam's apartment was a warm mess, the remnants of a chaotic Friday afternoon strewn across the living room. Books lay open facedown, clothes draped over chairs, and empty coffee mugs crowded the coffee table. The air conditioning hummed softly, barely keeping up with the Arizona heat. As Sam kicked off her shoes, she let out a sigh of relief, the tension from her dentist appointment still lingering in her jaw. "Another Friday survived," she muttered, dropping her bag by the door. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and took a long swig, feeling the cool liquid soothe her throat. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out to see a text from Dave. Dave: How was the dentist? Hope it wasn't too painful. Sam smiled, her fingers hovering over the keyboard as she considered her response. Not too bad, just the usual. How's your day going? Dave: *Better now that I…
2026-03-26 — Pulse
Dave's truck pulled up to the curb outside Sam's apartment, the headlights cutting through the early evening mist. Sam stepped out onto the small porch, the screen door creaking behind her as she leaned against the frame, watching him unfold from the driver's seat. His presence was a solidity in the night, a comfort she hadn't realized she needed until this moment. "Hey you," Sam called out softly, her voice barely carrying over the distance. Dave walked toward her, his steps measured and sure. "Hey Sam," he replied, his voice a low rumble that seemed to reach inside her. "Ready to go?" Sam nodded, pushing off from the doorframe and walking down the steps to meet him. "Yeah, let's get out of here." They climbed into the truck, the cab enveloping them in a cocoon of warmth and the scent of Dave's cologne—a mix of sandalwood and something sharp, like winter air. Sam buckled her seatbelt, …
2026-03-25 — Pulse
The rain pattered softly against the windows of the small cabin, creating a soothing rhythm that seemed to echo the steady beat of Sam's heart. Dave's cabin, nestled deep in the woods of Arizona, was a world away from the hustle of city life. Sam had driven up here after a long week, seeking solitude and a chance to clear her mind. She had texted Dave, letting him know she needed some space, but as the days wore on, the silence between them felt heavier than the rain. Dave had always been good at giving her space, but this time, it felt different. The distance between them was not just physical; it was emotional, a chasm that seemed to grow with each passing day. Sam sat on the couch, a blanket draped over her shoulders, staring out at the dark forest. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts—about her job, her life choices, and the gnawing feeling that something was missing. The cabin crea…
2026-03-24 — Pulse
Sam's feet ached from the long walk, the sun beating down on her back as she approached the small café tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The heat was relentless, and she could feel the sweat trickling down her spine, but the promise of a cool drink and a moment of respite kept her moving forward. As she pushed open the door, the bell chimed softly, and the cool air of the café washed over her, providing instant relief. Dave was already there, sitting at a corner table by the window, his bald head reflecting the sunlight streaming in. He looked up as she entered, his eyes meeting hers with a warmth that made her heart flutter despite the exhaustion. He stood, his solid presence commanding attention even in the casual setting, and gestured for her to join him. "Hey," she said, sliding into the chair across from him. "Thanks for meeting me here." "Of course," Dave replied, his voi…
2026-03-23 — Pulse
The coffee shop was a buzzing hive of morning activity, the air thick with the aroma of roasting beans and the hum of conversations. Sam sat at a corner table, her laptop open to a spreadsheet, but her mind was miles away. She tapped her pen against the table, her gaze drifting to the entrance every time the bell chimed. Dave was running late, and she couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and nervous energy. Their texts from earlier had been playful, but beneath the surface, there was an undeniable tension—a longing that had been building for days. Dave finally pushed through the door, his presence commanding even in the chaotic environment. He spotted Sam and made his way over, his strides confident and purposeful. As he approached, Sam felt that familiar flutter in her stomach, a sensation that was equal parts excitement and trepidation. "Morning," Dave said, his voice low and …
2026-03-22 — Pulse
Sam's car door clicked shut behind her, the sound echoing through the quiet of the suburban neighborhood. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the manicured lawns, and the air was filled with the distant hum of lawnmowers and the occasional bark of a dog. She walked up the familiar path to Dave's house, her heart already quickening with anticipation. The screen door was slightly ajar, and as she pushed it open, she could hear the low murmur of his voice from the kitchen. Dave was leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other holding his phone. He looked up as she entered, his eyes meeting hers with a slow, intimate smile. "Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. "Look what the cat dragged in." Sam rolled her eyes, but she couldn't suppress the smile that tugged at her lips. "I was in the nei…
2026-03-21 — Pulse
Dave's phone buzzed in his pocket as he stepped out of the car, the vibration jarring against the cool metal of the rental's door handle. He glanced at the screen, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. It was a text from Sam, a single line that made his blood heat: "I'm here. And I'm not wearing anything under this dress." The airport terminal was a bustle of travelers, their voices and footsteps echoing through the high ceilings. Dave navigated the crowd, his eyes scanning for Sam's familiar silhouette. He spotted her near the baggage claim, leaning against a pillar, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder. She wore a red dress that hugged her curves, and as she turned, her eyes met his, a silent promise passing between them. "Well, hello there," Dave said, closing the distance between them. His voice was low, his gaze traveling over her, lingering on the hint of cleavage visib…
2026-03-20 — Pulse
Sam's boots crunched on the gravel as she walked along the edge of the lake, the early morning sun casting a soft glow over the water. Dave's truck was already parked by the boat launch, and as she approached, she saw him leaning against the tailgate, coffee in hand, watching the ducks paddle by. He looked up and smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Sam felt that familiar flutter in her stomach. "Morning," she said, stopping a few feet away, suddenly self-conscious in her worn jeans and old flannel shirt. "Hey," Dave replied, pushing off from the truck. He stepped closer, his presence commanding even in his casual clothes. "You look tired." Sam snorted. "Thanks. I didn't sleep much. Too much on my mind." Dave's gaze softened, and he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of her jaw. "You've been through a lot lately. How ab…
2026-03-19 — Pulse
The airline coffee was lukewarm and bitter, and Dave watched the small rectangular patch of concrete outside the gate window shift from navy blue to dirty gray as the Phoenix dawn came up. His flight had landed at five a.m., three hours early because some storm system had pushed them west, and the concourse was mostly empty except for a handful of red-eyed travelers and a janitor pushing a wide broom across the tile. He’d texted Sam when they’d touched down—early, if you’re awake—but hadn’t expected an answer. It was Thursday. She’d told him her week had been a grind, that the layoff rumors at her office had turned the air thick with a quiet, collective dread. He was sipping the bad coffee, scrolling through a real estate app on his phone, thinking about her comment about the half-million dollar houses, when he saw her. She was walking toward him down the wide, carpeted concourse, her…