The burglar

Antoine raced down the stairs. The bearish figure with a pantyhose-clad face was following, unhurried. Panting, Antoine turned a corner into the living room.

‘You can run’, the burglar called out, his low voice echoing around the house, ‘but you can’t h—’

A curse. Thud, thud, thud. Tumbling down the steps.

Doug winced as he tried shifting his weight to the injured ankle. Reluctantly, he accepted his husband’s arm and they ambled out of the ER together.

‘This is embarrassing.’

‘Oh, honey’, replied Antoine. ‘You had an itch to scratch and that’s fine. But that’s enough roleplay for a while.’