The first thing I remember is the sound—not the moans, not the rhythm of breath or the creak of the mattress, but the cold, buzzing static of a horror movie leaking through the bedroom walls. It flickered in the dark like tiny needles of electricity crawling under my skin. My husband, Noah Adams, had turned it up again. The moment I screamed—half from fear, half from the strange intensity he craved—Noah finally released a shaky breath and collapsed beside me. His skin was damp and warm as he wrapped an arm around my waist. I scrambled under the blanket, trembling like a frightened animal, peeking out just long enough to whisper, “Noah… please. Can you turn that off? I can’t watch anymore.” He chuckled as if my fear were adorable, grabbed the remote from the nightstand, and killed the TV. Without the movie’s glow, the darkness abruptly thickened. I pressed against his chest, trying to anchor myself back to reality. I hated how sweaty he was, how humid the air suddenly felt, but I needed the heat of a living body beside me to dispel the clawing dread the movie had left behind. Noah had this… kink. Most couples used soft lights, warm music, maybe a little wine. My husband used horror. The bloodier the plot, the louder the jump scares, the more he wanted me. At first, I didn’t get it. What did zombies or axe-wielding maniacs have to do with intimacy