I never thought I’d be the kind of guy who ends up telling a story like this. My name’s Tim, and if you saw me on the street, you’d probably forget me two seconds later. Average height, average build—soft around the middle from too many desk hours and takeout nights. Glasses that always slip down my nose, hair that’s starting to thin at the crown even though I’m not even forty yet. I’m the guy who apologizes when someone else bumps into me. Safe. Reliable. Boring, probably.
And then there’s Kristen.
We met at a mutual friend’s boring office party a couple of years back. She was there in this simple black dress that hugged her in all the ways that made my mouth go dry. Curvy hips, full breasts, long dark hair that fell in waves down her back, and a laugh that turned heads. Way out of my league. I still don’t know how I got the courage to talk to her—probably the third beer—but somehow we clicked. She laughed at my dumb jokes, touched my arm when she spoke, and six months later we were engaged. A year after that, married.
She’s still way out of my league. Everyone says it, even if they try to be polite about it. Kristen could have had anyone—guys with six-packs, guys with money, guys who don’t trip over their own feet. Instead she picked me. I tell myself it’s because I’m kind, because I listen, because I make her feel safe. But deep down there’s always this quiet voice whispering that maybe she settled. That maybe one day she’ll wake up and realize she could do so much better.
We got back from our honeymoon just a couple of weeks ago—some beach resort in Central America where I burned like a lobster and she glowed like a goddess. Now she’s officially moved into my apartment in this mid-rise building downtown. Our building. Our life together, finally under one roof. I still get this little rush every time I come home and see her stuff mixed with mine—her perfume in the bathroom, her heels by the door, her lingerie in the drawer next to my plain boxers.
Everything felt perfect. Until that hot Sunday at the building pool.
It was one of those brutal summer afternoons where the air feels thick and the sun bounces off every surface like it’s trying to cook you. Kristen wanted to go down to the pool—she’d bought this new bikini during our honeymoon shopping spree, a bright coral two-piece that tied at the sides and showed off her curves in ways that made my stomach flip. She looked incredible. I threw on my baggy swim trunks (the ones that hide my soft gut) and a loose T-shirt I never took off, because who wants to see pasty dad-bod at the pool?
We grabbed towels, sunscreen, and headed down. The pool area was half-full—families, a couple of kids splashing, some older residents reading under umbrellas. And then there was him.
Brad.
He lives on the floor below us. I’d seen him around before—always with headphones on, carrying energy drinks or pizza boxes, sometimes chatting with the delivery guys like they’re old friends.
Toned arms from whatever gym routine he does between gaming sessions, smooth skin that hadn’t yet learned what real stress feels like, that easy confidence guys like him just seem to be born with. Shirtless most of the time, board shorts slung low, abs that looked carved rather than earned through misery like mine.
He was already there when we arrived, lounging on a chair with his phone, probably watching highlights or memes or whatever guys his age do. When he saw us—saw her—he sat up straighter. His eyes locked on Kristen like she’d just walked out of a dream.
Kristen looked like she belonged on a magazine cover, not in our mediocre apartment building pool. The coral bikini was barely there—two tiny triangles up top that strained against her full, heavy breasts, the ties digging just a little into the soft flesh at her sides. The bottoms were high-cut, showing off the generous curve of her hips and the way her ass cheeks peeked out with every step, round and firm from all those yoga classes she dragged me to (I usually just watched from the couch). Her stomach was flat but soft in that perfect, feminine way—not carved like some gym rat, just smooth and inviting. Long legs, tanned from the honeymoon sun, ending in painted toenails that matched the bikini. She carried a little straw tote with our sunscreen, two water bottles, and a couple of magazines she probably wouldn’t even open. Her dark hair was up in a messy bun, a few strands already escaping and sticking to her neck from the heat. She had this easy, oblivious smile on her face—content, relaxed, completely unaware that the second she walked through that gate, the air shifted. Everything was about to tilt.
I saw Brad notice it too. His eyes tracked her like a predator playing polite. When she turned to spread her towel on the lounger next to mine, he didn’t even pretend to look away. His gaze dropped straight to her ass—those perfect, jiggling cheeks swaying as she bent slightly to smooth the fabric. I swear I saw his tongue dart across his lower lip. Then, casual as anything, he reached down and adjusted himself through his board shorts. Not subtle. His hand cupped the thick outline of his dick for a second—long enough for me to register it—before letting go like it was no big deal. He was already half-hard just from watching her walk.
We settled in. Kristen stretched out on her stomach first, cheek resting on her folded arms, sunglasses hiding her eyes. Brad dragged his chair over without asking—close enough that his knee almost brushed mine when he sat. Too close.
“Hey, I forgot my phone upstairs,” Kristen said suddenly, sitting up. Her breasts shifted in the top, drawing both our eyes for a split second. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone steal my spot, okay?” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek—sweet, wifely—then stood and walked off toward the building entrance, hips rolling naturally. Brad watched every step. So did I.
The second she was gone, he leaned toward me, elbows on his knees, that easy grin still plastered on his face.
“Timmy,” he said.
“She is,” I said, quieter than I meant to. My throat felt dry. “Kristen. We just got married.”
He let out a low whistle, eyes flicking toward the direction she’d disappeared. “No shit. Congrats, Timmy. Seriously.” He clapped me on the shoulder again—harder this time, like he was testing how solid I was. I wasn’t. “But damn… that ass? Jesus. The way it jiggles when she walks… I could watch that all day.”
My face burned. Part of me wanted to snap at him—tell him to watch his mouth. But another part—the quiet, shameful part—felt that same twist in my gut from earlier. Heat. Not anger. Something lower. My swim trunks felt tighter than they should have.
“She’s… yeah, she’s beautiful,” I managed. It sounded weak even to me.
Brad leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head so his chest and abs flexed. The front of his shorts tented noticeably now—thick, obvious. He didn’t bother hiding it. “You’re a lucky guy, Timmy. Real lucky. Most dudes would kill for a piece of that. Bet she turns heads everywhere she goes, huh?”
I stared at the water, at the kids splashing, anywhere but at him. “Yeah. She does.”
I swallowed. My heart was thudding too hard. I wanted to tell him to back off. I wanted to stand up and walk away. But I just sat there, laid out on the stupid plastic lounger like a beached whale, feeling the way he talked down to me without even raising his voice. And the worst part? I didn’t correct him when he called me Timmy again.
I kept my eyes on the rippling water, pretending to watch the kids cannonballing off the edge, but Brad wasn’t done. He shifted in his chair, leaning even closer, like we were old pals swapping secrets. The bulge in his board shorts hadn’t gone down—if anything, it looked more pronounced now, the thick outline pressing against the damp fabric like it had a mind of its own.
“So, Timmy,” he said, voice casual, almost lazy, “where’d you two meet? Gotta be a hell of a story. Girl like that doesn’t just stumble into a guy like… well, you know.”
I swallowed. My mouth tasted like chlorine and nerves.
“Office party,” I mumbled. “Friend of a friend. She was there with some coworkers. We just… talked. Hit it off.”
He nodded slowly, like he was picturing it. “Yeah? Bet she turned every head in the room. You must’ve felt like you won the lottery that night.”
I forced a weak chuckle. “Something like that.”
He didn’t laugh back. Just kept watching the door Kristen had disappeared through, like he could will her to come back faster.
“What’s she do, anyway?” he asked next. “For work, I mean. She strike me as the type who could do anything. Model, influencer, something hot like that.”
My stomach twisted tighter. “She’s… between jobs right now. Nothing permanent since before the wedding. She’s taking some time off.”
Brad’s grin spread wider—slow, knowing. He let out a low, appreciative hum.
“Between jobs, huh? So she’s got plenty of free time on her hands.” He said it loud enough that the older couple two chairs over probably heard, but he didn’t care. “Lucky you, Timmy. Wife like that, home all day… plenty of time to keep things interesting.”
I felt my face go hot again. I wanted to say something. Anything to shut it down. Tell him it wasn’t like that. Tell him she was my wife, not some fantasy for him to drool over. But the words stuck. All I managed was a quiet, “Yeah… she likes having the downtime.”
He nodded, satisfied, then his eyes lit up like he’d just remembered something.
“Hey, speaking of downtime, what about the building gym? You guys ever hit it? I’m down there almost every afternoon. Weights, cardio, the works. She looks like she takes care of herself. Bet she’d kill it on the squat rack.”
I shook my head too fast. “No, she doesn’t really use it. She does yoga sometimes at home, but the gym’s not her thing.”
Brad tsked, like I’d just said something ridiculous. Without breaking eye contact with me, he reached down again—slow, deliberate—and palmed himself through his shorts. Not a quick adjustment this time. He squeezed the thick length once, twice, letting his hand linger so I couldn’t miss it. The fabric stretched tight over the head, outlining every ridge. My breath caught. I looked away, but not fast enough.
“Nah, man,” he said, voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. “We gotta fix that. Girl with an ass like hers? She belongs in that gym. Squats, deadlifts, hip thrusts… I’d spot her myself. Make sure she gets the form right.” He gave himself one last slow squeeze before letting go, the bulge now straining obscenely. “Tell her I said so. Tell her Brad’s happy to help her get in a real workout.”
I stared at my lap. My hands were clenched on the arms of the lounger so hard my knuckles were white. My heart hammered against my ribs. Part of me wanted to stand up, grab our stuff, and drag Kristen back upstairs the second she came through that door. Part of me wanted to disappear.
But another part—the quiet, sick part I didn’t want to name—felt that same shameful heat pooling low in my gut. The way he talked about her. The way he touched himself right in front of me while he did it. The way he called me Timmy one more time, like I was nothing.
Brad leaned back in his chair, still smirking, phone already in his hand like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.
“What’s her full name, Timmy? First and last. I wanna see if she’s on Insta.”
My throat closed up. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, hot and prickly. I should have said no. Should have told him it was none of his business, that she was my wife and he needed to back off. Instead my mouth opened and the words came out small and obedient.
“Kristen… Kristen Almeida.”
He tapped the screen a few times, eyes lighting up almost immediately. A low chuckle started in his chest, building until he was laughing out loud, not even trying to keep it quiet. Heads turned from a couple of the other chairs. He didn’t care.
“Oh man. Oh shit, Timmy. This is her, right? Profile’s wide open. No privacy settings or anything.” He tilted the phone toward me just enough that I could see the grid of photos loading. “Holy fuck. Look at this.”
I didn’t want to look. I looked anyway.
The feed was full of her. Bikini shots from our honeymoon, golden sand behind her, water lapping at her thighs. Close-ups of her cleavage spilling out of low-cut tops, the kind of angles that made her breasts look even fuller. A mirror selfie in yoga pants that hugged her ass so tight you could see the outline of her thong. Another one bent over in the kitchen, shorts riding up, captioned something cute like “morning stretch goals.” Dozens of them. All public. All there for anyone to scroll through.
Brad kept laughing, scrolling faster now, thumb flicking. “Your wife is a total freak, Timmy. Straight up exhibitionist vibes. These pics? She’s begging for attention.”
I felt my stomach drop through the lounger. My voice came out thin, almost a whisper.
“She’s… she just likes taking pictures. She worked as a photographer’s assistant for a couple months last year. She got used to being in front of the camera too. It’s not… it’s not like that.”
He snorted, still staring at the screen. “Sure, Timmy. Whatever you say. But come on. Look at this one.” He turned the phone again, showing me a shot of her on all fours on a beach towel, back arched, ass high, looking over her shoulder with that same easy smile she gave me every morning. “That’s not ‘I like taking pictures.’ That’s ‘come and get it.'”
I stared at the image until it burned into my brain. My hands were shaking a little on the armrests. I wanted to grab the phone, delete the app, tell him to fuck off. I wanted to disappear into the concrete. Instead I just sat there, meek and frozen, while he kept scrolling and chuckling to himself.
Kristen came walking back through the gate with that same peaceful smile she always wore when she was relaxed, like the world was exactly the way she wanted it. Her iPhone dangled from one hand in its bright pink case, the kind with little rhinestones around the edges that caught the sunlight every time she moved. She looked completely at ease, hips swaying gently, breasts bouncing just enough with each step to remind me how perfect they were.
Brad had maybe thirty seconds before she reached us. He didn’t waste them.
“Timmy,” he muttered under his breath, eyes locked on her chest now, “those tits look even better up close. Fucking delicious. Same energy as that back view, man. You think they’re real or she got some work done?”
My mouth went dry. I could barely get the words out.
“They’re… natural,” I said, voice so low it almost disappeared into the sound of splashing water. “All natural.”
He just nodded once, like he’d already known the answer, then leaned back and spread his legs a little wider, making sure the tent in his shorts stayed visible.
Kristen reached us a couple seconds later. She stopped right between our chairs, tilting her head slightly as she looked from me to Brad and back again. She clearly noticed we had been talking, but she didn’t know who he was. She’d never met him, never even heard his name from me. Her expression was curious, patient, waiting for me to handle the introduction like a good husband should.
I cleared my throat. “Hey, babe. This is Brad. He lives on the floor below us. He’s the son of that woman we always see in the hallway… you know, Mrs. Carvalho, the one with the short auburn hair and the little yappy dog she carries everywhere.”
I was about to keep going, maybe add something harmless like how he was good with computers or whatever, but Brad didn’t let me finish.
He stood up in one smooth motion, taller than I’d realized when he was sitting, and flashed that big, easy grin straight at her.
“Brad,” he said, cutting right over me like I hadn’t spoken at all. “And you must be Kristen. Damn, girl. That coral bikini looks insane on you. Seriously. You wearing that just to make the rest of the girls here feel bad about themselves?”
Kristen blinked once, surprised, then her cheeks flushed pink under the sunscreen. Not embarrassed pink. Flattered pink. The kind that made her eyes sparkle a little brighter. She laughed softly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Oh my god, thank you,” she said, voice light and warm. “That’s really sweet. I wasn’t sure about the color at first, but now I guess I’m glad I went with it.”
She smiled at him like he’d just handed her a compliment wrapped in a bow. Instant chemistry. Not the slow-burn kind. The kind that happens in two seconds flat when someone confident looks at her like she’s the only thing worth seeing.
I sat there on my lounger, still flat on my back, feeling like an extra in my own marriage. Brad was already facing her fully now, close enough that she had to tilt her chin up a little to meet his eyes. He didn’t step back. Neither did she.
And me? I just watched, polite and quiet and useless, while that sick little heat in my gut twisted harder and the word “Timmy” echoed in my head like a joke only Brad and I were in on.
Kristen glanced down at me for half a second, still smiling, then back at him.
“So… you two were talking?” she asked, innocent, like she was just making conversation.
Brad answered before I could open my mouth.
“Yeah. Timmy here was just telling me how lucky he is.” He shot me a quick look, eyes gleaming. “Weren’t you, Timmy?”
I nodded once. Small. Meek. “Yeah,” I said. “I was.”
That’s when it happened. I was watching her face the whole time, hyper-aware of every little shift in her expression like the pathetic insecure husband I am. Her eyes flicked down. Just for half a second. Accidental. But I caught it perfectly. Her gaze dropped straight to the front of Brad’s board shorts, right to that massive, heavy bulge that was still straining against the thin wet fabric. The thick outline was impossible to ignore, especially in the bright afternoon sun, the shape of the head and the sheer size of it pushing out like it didn’t belong on a body that young.
I saw the exact moment it registered. Her lips parted just a tiny bit. Her breath caught. The flush on her cheeks, already there from his compliment about the bikini, deepened into a real, warm pink that spread down her neck. She blinked slowly, like she was trying to make sense of what she was seeing, and for that split second I could practically hear what had to be running through her head. That can’t be real. How does a guy who looks that young have something so huge? It doesn’t even match him. It looks… too big. Way too big.
She snapped her eyes back up to his face almost immediately, too fast, like she was embarrassed she had looked at all. But the damage was done. Her smile stayed in place, sweet and friendly on the surface, but now there was something extra behind it. A tiny sparkle. A little nervousness mixed with curiosity she probably didn’t even realize was showing.
Brad didn’t miss a beat. He just stood there, chest out, letting her (and me) see everything, like he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having.
Kristen laughed softly, tucking that loose strand of hair behind her ear again. “Well… it’s nice to finally meet you, Brad. Tim’s mentioned the building has some cool neighbors.”
She sounded normal. Friendly. But I knew my wife. That quick glance had done something. And the worst part was, watching her do it made that same sick, shameful heat flare up even stronger in my gut. I hated how small it made me feel. I hated that I didn’t say anything. I just sat there on my lounger, soft and meek and silent, while my beautiful wife stood inches away from a guy whose dick she had just accidentally sized up and was now trying very hard not to think about.
Or maybe… she was.
Brad kept that easy grin on his face, like everything was perfectly normal, and turned back to Kristen.
“Hey, Timmy just showed me your Insta real quick,” he said, voice casual, almost polite for the first time since we started talking. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to follow you. Keep up with the updates and all that.”
Kristen’s eyes lit up a little more. She didn’t even hesitate.
“That’s more than cool,” she said brightly, already unlocking her phone with a quick swipe. “Go ahead. My handle’s just @kristen.almeida, all one word. I’m actually about to hit 15k followers soon. It’s kind of crazy how fast it’s growing lately.”
Brad nodded like he was impressed, pulling his own phone back out. He tapped a few times, and I could see the follow notification pop up on her screen almost instantly. He liked one of the recent posts right there in front of us — the beach shot from our honeymoon where she was arched back laughing, bikini top barely containing her — and gave a low appreciative hum.
While his eyes were still on her phone, he mumbled under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear but not her.
“I wonder why that is…”
The words hit me like a slap. Quiet. Smirking. Full of meaning. My face burned again, but I didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. Just lay there on the lounger feeling every bit as small as he wanted me to feel.
Kristen didn’t catch it. She was too busy smiling at him, scrolling quickly to like one of his stories back: some gym selfie he’d posted earlier, shirtless and flexing in the building’s weight room. She giggled softly at the caption.
Brad pocketed his phone and stretched again, making a show of it so his abs tightened and that obscene bulge shifted in his shorts one more time.
“Anyway,” he said, “I gotta bounce. Got an online poker tournament starting soon. Gonna take some loser’s money real quick.” He shot me a quick sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Catch you later, Timmy.”
Then he turned fully to Kristen, stepping just a little closer than necessary.
“I’ll hit you up in your DMs, or maybe drop a comment on whatever pic you post next. Keep killing it in that bikini, yeah?”
Kristen blushed again, but this time she didn’t look away. She just smiled wider, tucking her phone into her straw tote.
“Sounds good. Nice meeting you, Brad.” He gave her one last long look, up and down, no shame, then nodded at me like an afterthought.
“See you later, Kristit,” he said, casual as anything, the word rolling off his tongue smooth and deliberate.
Kristen didn’t even blink. She just smiled wider, gave a little wave with her fingers still wrapped around her pink-cased phone, and said, “Bye, Brad! Have fun with poker.”
She was already turning back toward her lounger, stretching out again on her stomach, completely oblivious. To her it probably sounded like a cute nickname, some playful twist on her name the way guys her age sometimes do. Kristit. Harmless. Flirty. Sweet.
But I heard it exactly the way he meant it.
Kris-tit.
Right there in front of me. In front of my wife. He’d just called her Kris-tit, emphasizing the last part just enough that it landed like a slap across my face. My stomach flipped hard. My ears burned. I replayed it in my head three times in the space of two seconds, each time clearer than the last. He didn’t even try to hide it. He said it out loud, to her face, while I was sitting right next to her like some pathetic prop.
Did he really just…? Yeah. He did.
I stared at his back as he walked away, board shorts slung low, that confident swagger carrying him toward the gate. My hands clenched on the arms of the lounger so tight the plastic creaked. Part of me wanted to stand up and yell something, anything. Call him out. Tell him to watch his fucking mouth. Tell him that was my wife he was talking to like that.
But I didn’t move. I couldn’t. My heart was pounding too fast, my mouth too dry. I kept seeing the way he’d looked at her tits when he said it. The way he’d adjusted himself earlier. The way he’d followed her on Instagram and liked that cleavage shot right in front of us.
Kristit.
He’d reduced my beautiful, perfect wife to a pair of tits in one stupid, cocky word. And she hadn’t even noticed.
She sighed happily beside me, eyes closed again, cheek resting on her folded arms, completely at peace while the sun kissed her skin. “He’s funny,” she murmured, half-asleep already. “Seems like a nice kid.”
Nice kid.
I swallowed thickly, forcing my voice to stay even. “Yeah,” I said. “Real nice.” My eyes stayed glued to the gate long after Brad disappeared through it. My mind wouldn’t let go of the word. Kristit. Kris-tit. Over and over, like a taunt only I could hear. And the sickest part? Some tiny, shameful corner of me was already wondering what he’d say next time. What he’d do next time.
Two hours later we were back in the apartment. The sun had dipped lower, turning the living room windows into golden rectangles across the floor. Normally by this time Kristen would already be in the kitchen, humming some pop song while chopping vegetables or stirring something on the stove. The smell of garlic and herbs would be drifting out, making my stomach growl. It was our little Sunday routine. Comfortable. Predictable.
Today the kitchen was silent.
She was sprawled on the couch instead, legs tucked under her, phone in both hands. Her coral bikini top was still on under a loose white tank, the straps peeking out, hair still damp from the pool and starting to curl at the ends. She was typing fast, thumbs flying, little bursts of laughter escaping her every few seconds. Notifications kept popping — ding, ding, ding — like popcorn in the microwave. She’d bite her lip, type back, shake her head with that same shy smile she got when she was reading something that made her blush.
I stood in the doorway for a second, watching her. I cleared my throat. “Babe? You hungry? I was thinking maybe we order in today. Or I could make those sandwiches you like.”
No response. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, another notification chiming in. She typed something quick, giggled softly, then shook her head again like she couldn’t believe what she was reading.
I tried again, louder this time.
“Kristen? You want lunch or…?”
She blinked, finally looking up. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, that peaceful smile replaced by something brighter, almost giddy.
“Oh my god, sorry!” she said, laughing at herself. “I was totally zoned out. What did you say?”
I forced a smile, trying to keep my voice light. “Just asking if you’re hungry. You usually start cooking around now.”
She set the phone face-down on her thigh for a second, but kept one hand on it like she didn’t want to let go completely.
“I was chatting with Brad,” she said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “He’s so funny. Look at this.” She turned the phone toward me just enough that I caught a glimpse of the chat bubble — his name at the top with a little green dot next to it showing he was online. She shook her head again, still smiling. “He just sent something ridiculous. I can’t even…”
My stomach did that familiar twist. Defensive mode kicked in before I could stop it.
“Wasn’t he supposed to be playing poker or something?”
Kristen nodded enthusiastically, picking the phone back up as another notification pinged.
“Yeah, he is. He’s still in the tournament. But he keeps messaging me between hands. It’s hilarious.” She scrolled up a little, eyes lighting up again. “He just won a prize already — like four thousand five hundred dollars. He screenshotted the payout and sent it to me. Look.”
She tilted the phone so I could see. There it was: some poker site interface showing a big green +$4,500 next to his username. The number stared back at me like an accusation.
I blinked. “Four thousand five hundred? That’s… that’s more than I make in a whole month.”
The words came out quieter than I meant them to. Almost a whisper.
Kristen’s smile softened, but there was still that excited edge to it. She nodded.
“I know, right? Crazy. He said he made it just by beating some dumb losers.” She laughed again, short and a little shy, like she’d caught herself using his exact phrasing. Her hand flew to her mouth for a second. “Oh god, I sound like him now. ‘Dumb losers.’ That’s so Brad.”
She shook her head at herself, cheeks going pinker, but the smile didn’t fade. If anything, it got wider. Another notification popped up. She glanced down immediately, bit her lip, and started typing back.
I stood there in the doorway, still in my damp trunks, feeling the cool air from the AC raise goosebumps on my arms. My wife — my beautiful, perfect wife — was lying on our couch giggling at messages from the kid downstairs. The kid who’d called her Kristit. The kid who’d stared at her tits and ass like they were his personal property.
The kid who apparently made more money in a couple hours of poker than I did busting my ass all month at the office. And she was quoting him, using his words and laughing like they already had inside jokes.
I swallowed hard. That sick heat was back in my gut, stronger now, mixing with something sharper — jealousy, maybe, or fear, or both. My hands felt cold. My throat tight. Kristen didn’t notice. She was already typing again, legs shifting under her, phone glowing against her skin.
Another ding. She laughed softly, shook her head one more time. I turned away, walked to the kitchen, and opened the fridge like I was going to make something after all. Anything to keep my hands busy. Anything to stop staring at the way her thumbs kept moving across the screen, faster every time his name lit up.
A couple minutes later, the fridge door closed with a soft thud, and Kristen finally set her phone down on the coffee table. She stretched her arms over her head, making that little satisfied sound she always did when she decided to move, then padded barefoot into the kitchen.
I was already there, pulling out bread, deli meat, tomatoes—trying to focus on the simple rhythm of making sandwiches so I wouldn’t keep thinking about the way her thumbs had been flying across the screen. She slipped in beside me, hip bumping mine lightly in that familiar way, and reached for the cutting board without a word. Like nothing was different. Like the last two hours hadn’t happened.
I glanced at her sideways while I sliced a tomato.
“You finished talking with Brad?” I asked. I tried to keep my voice neutral, casual, like it was just small talk. But it came out a little too careful.
Kristen paused with the knife hovering over an avocado. Her shoulders dropped just a fraction. The bright, giddy energy she’d had on the couch faded into something softer, almost disappointed.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. “He had to go.”
She set the knife down and leaned back against the counter, arms crossing under her chest so the loose tank pulled tight across her bikini top again.
“He said he’s got a date tonight. Some woman from the building.” She gave a small shrug, like she was trying to play it off. “Didn’t say who. Just that he had to get ready.”
My knife stopped mid-slice. I stared at the tomato half in my hand, juice dripping onto the cutting board. A date. With someone else in the building. Not her. And yet the way she said it—quiet, a little flat—made my chest tighten in a way I didn’t expect. Relief? Jealousy? Something uglier?
But then she looked up at me, and that disappointed expression cracked open into a small, hopeful smile.
“But he promised he’d chat again later,” she added quickly, like she needed to remind herself as much as tell me. “After his date, maybe. Or tomorrow. Said he’d DM me when he’s free.”
The smile bloomed fully now, soft and a little shy, the same one she’d had when he first complimented her bikini at the pool. Her eyes sparkled again, just for a second, before she turned back to the avocado and started scooping it out like the conversation was already over.
I stood there with the knife still in my hand, watching her. The disappointment had lasted maybe ten seconds. Ten seconds of her looking like she’d lost something small but real. Then Brad’s promise—his casual little “later”—had flipped it right back to happy. Like a switch.
I swallowed.
“Cool,” I said. The word tasted like cardboard. “That’s… nice of him.”
She nodded without looking up, humming a little tune under her breath now as she spread the avocado on the bread.
“Yeah. He’s fun to talk to. Makes me laugh.”
She reached over and squeezed my forearm once—quick, affectionate, the way she always did when she wanted to reassure me everything was fine.
I forced a smile back. Nodded like I agreed.
Inside, though, my mind was spinning in slow, sick circles.
He was going on a date with some other woman in the building right now. Probably already in the shower, thinking about whoever it was. Or maybe thinking about Kristen’s tits in that coral bikini while he got ready. Either way, he’d still made time to promise my wife he’d message her again later. Like she was next on the list. Like she was something he could pick up whenever he felt like it.
And she was smiling about it. Smiling because the kid downstairs had thrown her a tiny bone. A promise of more messages. Kristen started humming again, happier now, oblivious to the way my stomach was knotting tighter with every second.
Brad didn’t send anything else for the rest of the day.
After those last few messages in the kitchen, Kristen’s phone went quiet. No more dings. No more giddy little laughs. She kept glancing at the screen every few minutes while we ate the sandwiches, then while we watched some mindless Netflix show on the couch, then while she scrolled through Instagram in bed before turning off the light. Each time the screen stayed blank, her shoulders dropped a tiny bit more. By dinner she was quieter than usual. By bedtime she was borderline grumpy—snapping at the remote when it wouldn’t connect to the TV, sighing heavily when I asked if she wanted tea.
We went to bed early. She curled up on her side facing away from me, phone face-down on the nightstand like it had personally disappointed her. I lay there in the dark listening to her breathing slow, pretending to fall asleep faster than I did. The apartment was silent except for the low hum of the AC and the occasional car passing on the street below.
Around 2 a.m. something pulled me half-awake. A soft glow from under the bathroom door. The faint creak of the floorboard. Then her voice whispering, low, careful not to wake me.
I couldn’t make out everything. Just fragments drifting through the cracked door.
“…yeah, of course he’s already sleeping, but still…”
A pause. A small, nervous laugh.
“I can’t do that…”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“…okay… just this time…”
Then the unmistakable sound of a camera shutter. Soft click. Once. Twice. Maybe three times.
My heart started hammering so hard I was sure she’d hear it through the wall. I kept my eyes closed, breathing slow and even like I was still out cold. Inside my head everything was spinning. Who was she talking to? Brad? After his date? At two in the morning? And what the hell was she taking pictures of?
The toilet flushed—loud, deliberate, like cover. Water ran in the sink for a few seconds. Then the light flicked off and the door eased open.
She slipped back into bed, mattress dipping under her weight. She smelled faintly of her vanilla body lotion, the one she always put on after a shower. Warm. Familiar. But nothing felt familiar right now.
I waited a beat, then rolled toward her, keeping my voice thick with sleep. “Everything okay, babe?”
She froze for half a second, then turned her head just enough that I could see the outline of her face in the dim light from the window. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I just had to pee. Sorry if I woke you.”
Her voice was soft. Too soft. The kind of soft she used when she was lying about something small—like eating the last cookie or forgetting to buy milk. But this didn’t feel small.
“You sure?” I pressed, gentle, like I was still half-asleep.
“Totally sure.” She reached back, found my hand under the covers, and squeezed it once. Quick. Reassuring. “Go back to sleep, Tim. I’m fine.”
She rolled away again, pulling the sheet up to her chin.
I stared at the ceiling in the dark. My pulse wouldn’t slow down. I kept replaying the fragments I’d heard. “…just this time…” The camera clicks. The nervous little laugh. And the way she’d said “he’s already sleeping” like I was some obstacle she had to work around.
Brad hadn’t messaged all day. Then suddenly, in the middle of the night, after his date with whoever, he messages her. And she sneaks into the bathroom to whisper back. To take pictures. Of what?
Her in the coral bikini again? Something more? Something she wouldn’t want me seeing?
I didn’t ask. I couldn’t. The words stuck in my throat like always.
Instead I lay there, wide awake now, listening to her breathing deepen into real sleep. My mind raced through every worst-case scenario, every filthy possibility, and underneath all of it that same sick, twisted heat coiled tighter in my gut.
She’d lied to my face. And I’d let her. Just like I always did.
I closed my eyes, but sleep didn’t come. Not for a long time. All I could think about was her phone, face-down on the nightstand, probably still open to their chat. Waiting for the next message. Waiting for “later” to finally arrive.
And wondering what “just this time” really meant.
The next morning came too fast. I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30, head foggy from barely sleeping, still replaying those 2 a.m. bathroom whispers in loops. Kristen was still curled under the covers, breathing soft and even, phone charging on the nightstand like nothing had happened. I didn’t wake her. Just kissed her forehead, grabbed my keys, and left for the office.
Work was hell from the second I sat down. My boss, Mr. Almeida (no relation, thank God), was in one of his moods—pacing the open-plan floor, barking about deadlines, micromanaging every email I sent. By 11 a.m. he’d already called me into his office twice to “go over the numbers again” like I was a kid who’d forgotten his homework. I kept my head down, nodded, apologized more than necessary. Felt like the same small, meek Tim from the pool yesterday. Only now it was in a suit instead of swim trunks.
Around noon I realized I wouldn’t make it home for lunch. The project was behind, boss breathing down my neck, and traffic would eat the whole hour anyway. I stepped into the hallway near the bathrooms for some quiet and dialed Kristen.
She picked up on the second ring.
“Hey babe,” she answered, voice bright, almost bubbly. The kind of tone she used when she was in a really good mood.
“Hey. Listen, I’m stuck here. Boss is riding me hard today. Won’t be able to come home for lunch. Sorry.”
“No worries at all,” she said cheerfully. “I figured you might be. I’ve got stuff to do anyway.”
In the background I heard it: sharp, rapid pops. Like gunfire. Not real gunfire—video game gunfire. Explosions, reload clicks, muffled shouting from a headset. It was loud, echoing slightly, like it was coming from a bigger room with hard floors and not our carpeted living room.
I frowned. “What… what’s that noise? Sounds like gunshots.”
Kristen laughed—light, easy, like I’d asked something cute.
“Oh that? It’s just Brad playing videogames. He’s got the volume cranked. I told him to turn it down but you know how he gets when he’s in a match.”
My grip tightened on the phone. Brad. And she was… where?
Before I could ask, she kept going, words tumbling out casual and happy.
“His mom had to make a quick trip out of town—some family thing in the interior. She left this morning. Brad was just gonna order pizza or something, but I felt bad. He’s all alone down there, no one to cook for him. So I offered to make lasagna at his place. It’s his favorite dish, apparently. He was so excited when I told him. Said he hasn’t had homemade lasagna since forever.”
She said it like it was the most neighborly thing in the world. Like going down to the kid’s apartment—the kid who’d stared at her ass, called her Kristit, messaged her at 2 a.m.—to cook him the food she usually made for me was completely normal.
The game sounds kept going in the background: a grenade exploding, Brad’s voice yelling something triumphant, then laughing. He was right there. In his own apartment. With my wife. Kristen kept talking, oblivious or maybe just not caring how it landed.
I forced my voice to stay even. “So… you’re there right now? In his apartment?”
“Yeah,” she said, like it was obvious. “I brought everything down here. Figured it’d be easier than carrying the hot dish back up. He’s sitting at the kitchen table playing his game on the laptop while it bakes. Smells amazing in here.”
Another burst of gunfire through the phone. Brad’s voice again—louder this time—“Yo Kristit, you got any more of that garlic bread ready yet?”
Kristit.
He said it again. Casually. In his kitchen. To my wife.
Kristen laughed into the phone. “See? He’s starving already. Anyway, don’t worry about lunch. I made extra. There’ll be plenty left when you get home—I’ll bring some up later.”
I stared at the gray carpet in the hallway. My tie felt too tight. My palms were sweaty.
“Yeah,” I managed. “Sounds… good.”
“Gotta go check the oven,” she said brightly. “Love you. Have a good rest of the day, okay? Don’t let Carlos stress you out too much. Love you too.” She hung up.
I stood there for a long minute, phone still pressed to my ear like an idiot, listening to the dial tone. Behind my eyes I could see it perfectly: Kristen in Brad’s kitchen, probably in yoga pants and a tight tank, bending over his oven to check the lasagna she’d made special for him. Brad at the table, legs spread, headset on, yelling at his screen, calling her Kristit while she laughed and plated garlic bread for him. The same lasagna she used to make on our anniversaries—now baking in his oven, in his apartment, for him.
And I was stuck at work, getting reamed out by my boss for spreadsheets that didn’t matter. I slid the phone back into my pocket, walked back to my desk, and sat down. Carlos was waiting.
“Tim. Where the hell have you been? This report isn’t going to fix itself.”
I nodded. “Sorry. On it.”
But my mind wasn’t on the report. It was on the smell of lasagna filling Brad’s apartment. On Brad’s voice calling my wife Kristit. On the way she’d sounded so happy—happier than she’d sounded with me in weeks. And on the fact that when I finally got home tonight, she’d come up the stairs carrying a dish of leftovers.
Leftovers from the meal she cooked for him. In his home. I stared at the screen, numbers blurring. The rock in my chest was heavier now. And that sick, twisted heat in my gut? It was burning hotter than ever.
Around 3 p.m. the office had quieted down a little. Carlos finally left for a meeting, leaving me alone with the hum of the AC and the spreadsheet I still hadn’t fixed. My hands were shaking slightly when I pulled out my phone. I couldn’t stop thinking about her in Brad’s kitchen all morning—bending over his oven, laughing at his jokes, making lasagna for him while he played games and called her Kristit. I needed to hear her voice. Needed to know she was okay. Needed to know she wasn’t… changing.
I dialed her number. It rang once, twice.
Then Brad answered.
“Yo, Timmy,” he said, calm, confident, that lazy drawl like he’d been expecting my call. Like he owned the phone now.
My stomach dropped straight through the floor.
“Where’s Kristen?” I asked, voice cracking on the last syllable. I hated how small it sounded.
He chuckled—low, easy. “She forgot her phone down here. Left it on the counter while she went to put on a bikini. Been busy all morning jiggling that ass around my kitchen, cooking what I told her to make. Lasagna turned out killer, by the way. She’s a natural.”
I gripped the edge of my desk so hard my knuckles went white. “She… she went back to your place? After lunch?”
“Nah, she never really left,” he said casually, like it was obvious. “After we ate she stuck around. We were just chilling, talking. Then she said she wanted to catch the rest of the sun before it gets too late. Her idea. Said the pool sounded perfect. So she ran upstairs real quick to grab a bikini. Should be back down any minute.”
My mouth went dry. “A bikini. At your place.”
He laughed again, softer this time, almost indulgent. “Yeah, Timmy. She’s probably using it as an excuse to get another look at the volume in my trunks. You saw how she glanced last time at the pool, right? Girl can’t help herself.”
The words landed like punches. I pictured it instantly: Kristen in his apartment, slipping into whatever skimpy thing she picked this time, checking herself in his mirror, maybe biting her lip the way she does when she’s nervous-excited. Then coming back down to him, hips moving, knowing he’d be watching every step. Knowing he’d comment on it. Knowing he’d call her Kristit again while they lounged side by side on the chairs.
I tried to speak, but nothing came out at first. When it did, it was barely a whisper.
“Why… why are you telling me this?”
“Because you called,” he said simply. “And because I figured you’d wanna know where your wife is. She’s safe, Timmy. Real safe. I’m taking good care of her.”
Another pause. I could hear the faint splash of the pool in the background now—someone diving in, kids laughing. Then his voice again, lower, almost conspiratorial.
“She’ll be down here any second. Probably in that black one this time. The thong. You know the one. Bet she picked it thinking about me.”
My heart was slamming against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack them.
“Put her on when she gets back,” I managed.
“Sure thing,” he said, cheerful now. “I’ll tell her you called. She’ll text you from her phone once she grabs it. Or maybe I’ll just hand it to her myself.”
He didn’t say goodbye. Just hung up. I sat there staring at my screen, the spreadsheet forgotten. My tie felt like it was choking me. My palms were slick with sweat. And Brad told me she was using it as an “excuse” to stare at his bulge again.
And the worst part? Part of me believed him. Because I’d seen that glance at the pool. I’d heard the way she laughed when he complimented her. I’d felt how happy she sounded when she talked about him.
Twenty minutes later my phone buzzed on the desk.
Kristen’s name lit up the screen, the little photo of her smiling at me from our honeymoon popping up like a reminder of how things used to be simple.
I stared at it for half a second too long. Carlos was right there, leaning over my shoulder, breath smelling like stale coffee and mint gum, finger jabbing at the screen as he pointed out every decimal place I’d supposedly fucked up.
“Tim, focus. This column here—why is the Q3 projection off by three percent? Explain. Now.”
I couldn’t answer the call. Couldn’t even silence it without him noticing. The vibration kept going, insistent, until it finally rolled to voicemail. The screen went dark again.
Carlos didn’t move. He stayed planted behind me, arms crossed, waiting for my explanation like a hawk.
I mumbled something about recalculating the growth rate, fingers trembling on the keyboard. He grunted, unsatisfied, but at least he started pacing again instead of breathing down my neck.
The second he turned away, I snatched the phone and opened the missed call notification. No voicemail. No follow-up text. Just the timestamp: 3:22 p.m.
She’d called back and I’d missed it. Now all I had left was my imagination, and it was already running wild.
I pictured her walking back into Brad’s apartment after grabbing the bikini upstairs. She’d have changed in our bathroom—quick, efficient—then come straight down again. Which one did she pick? The black thong she’d bought on our honeymoon but never worn outside the hotel room? The one with the tiny triangles up top that barely covered her nipples, the strings tying at her hips so one tug would undo everything? Or maybe something new she’d hidden in the drawer, something skimpier she hadn’t shown me yet. Something she’d chosen thinking about how Brad would look at her.
She’d step out onto the pool deck, towel over one arm, hips rolling naturally the way they did when she felt confident. Brad would already be there—lounging in the same chair as before, legs spread wide, board shorts slung low, that thick bulge already half-hard from anticipation. He’d sit up when he saw her, eyes raking over every inch: the way the black fabric hugged her ass cheeks, leaving almost nothing to the imagination; the way her breasts bounced slightly as she walked; the way her stomach glistened with fresh sunscreen she’d probably asked him to help rub in.
“Damn, Kristit,” he’d say, grinning that cocky grin. “Told you that one would look better than the coral. Turn around—let me see the back.”
She’d laugh—nervous at first, then warmer—maybe do a little spin for him, ass moving just enough to make him adjust himself right there in front of her. No shame. No subtlety.
They’d settle in side by side. Close. Closer than neighbors should be. She’d lie on her stomach first, cheek on her folded arms, sunglasses hiding her eyes but not the way she’d glance sideways at him every few minutes. Brad would talk—easy, teasing—about the poker win, about how much money he took from “dumb losers,” about how she should come down more often because “the view’s way better with you here.”
She’d giggle. Blush. Say something like “stop it, you’re terrible,” but she wouldn’t move away when his knee brushed hers. She’d arch her back a little more when she flipped over, breasts straining against the tiny top, nipples probably hard from the breeze or from the way he kept staring.
Maybe he’d offer to reapply sunscreen. “Can’t have you burning, Kristit. Turn over.” His hands—strong, confident—would glide over her shoulders, down her back, lingering at the small of her waist, thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts “by accident.” She’d tense for a second, then relax, biting her lip, letting him.
They’d talk about nothing and everything. Him asking about our honeymoon again, her telling stories, him making jokes about how “Timmy probably burned like hell while you glowed.” She’d laugh too hard at that one. He’d drop hints—subtle at first—about how she deserves more fun, more attention, more… everything. She’d pretend to brush it off, but her body language would betray her: legs shifting closer, fingers playing with the tie at her hip, eyes flicking down to his trunks again when she thought he wasn’t looking.
And he’d notice. Of course he’d notice.
“Caught you staring again,” he’d murmur, voice low enough that only she could hear. “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”
She’d blush deeper, stammer something cute, but she wouldn’t deny it.
They’d stay like that for hours, sun dipping lower, pool emptying out, just the two of them and the sound of water lapping. Maybe he’d suggest they move to the shaded corner chairs, “less eyes.” Maybe she’d agree.
Maybe he’d lean in closer. Maybe his hand would rest on her thigh for a second, testing. Maybe she wouldn’t push it away right away.
And me? I was stuck here, under fluorescent lights, Carlos now back at my desk barking about pivot tables, while my wife lay half-naked next to a kid who’d already started rewriting the rules of our marriage.
I stared at the spreadsheet. Numbers swam. The phone stayed silent.
I got home just after seven. The hallway light buzzed overhead as I turned the key. The apartment smelled like sunscreen, chlorine, and something faintly sweet, like coconut lotion mixed with whatever perfume she’d put on after the pool. My tie was already loosened, shirt untucked, shoulders heavy from the day.
Kristen was in the living room, curled on the couch in one of my old T-shirts that hit her mid-thigh, legs bare, hair still damp and loose around her shoulders. She looked up when I closed the door and smiled, wide and bright, the kind of smile that used to take effort but now came easy.
“Hey babe,” she said, voice lighter than it had been in weeks. “You look beat. Rough one?”
I dropped my bag by the door and nodded. “Yeah. Carlos was on me all day. Fixed the report twice, still not happy. You?”
She stretched her arms over her head, T-shirt riding up just enough to show the curve of her hip, then patted the cushion next to her. “Come sit. I’ll tell you everything.”
I sank down beside her. She smelled like summer. Her skin was warm from the sun, cheeks still carrying that faint flush.
“How was the pool?” I asked, trying to keep it casual.
Her eyes lit up instantly. “So good. Brad told me the best time to go is right before sunset because the light makes everything look golden. He was right. We stayed until they started closing the gates.”
Brad told me.
I swallowed. “You two were there the whole afternoon?”
She nodded, tucking her legs under her so her knee brushed my thigh. “Pretty much. After I brought the bikini down we just hung out. Brad said the water was perfect today, not too cold, so we swam a little. He taught me how to do that flip turn thing at the wall. I kept messing it up at first but he was super patient.”
Brad said. Brad taught me.
I forced a small smile. “Sounds fun.”
“It really was.” She leaned back against the cushions, eyes distant for a second like she was replaying it. “He’s funny, you know? Keeps making these dumb jokes but they actually land. Brad said I should try the rooftop bar next time because the view is insane at night. He goes there sometimes after poker wins.”
I nodded slowly. “You forgot your phone down there.”
She blinked, then laughed. “Oh my god, yeah. I left it on his counter when I ran up to change. Brad answered when you called, right? He told me later. Said you sounded stressed.”
Brad told me and Brad said. Again
My stomach twisted. “He did answer. Told me you were… putting on a bikini. That you were coming back down.”
She grinned, no shame, no hesitation. “Yup. The black one. Brad said it looked killer on me. Said the coral was cute but this one was dangerous. I almost didn’t wear it but he convinced me it was perfect for the sun.”
She kept going, words spilling out faster now, vibrant, alive in a way I hadn’t heard in months.
“We talked about so much. Brad said our honeymoon sounded amazing but that I deserve more spontaneous stuff like that. He thinks I should take up poker because I’m good at reading people. Brad taught me a couple hands on his phone while we were drying off. I actually won a fake hand against him. He laughed so hard.”
Every sentence started the same way. Brad said. Brad thinks. Brad taught. She didn’t notice. She just glowed. I listened to her describe the way the water felt, the way Brad kept reapplying sunscreen on her shoulders “because you miss spots otherwise.
I asked about the lasagna leftovers. She said she’d already portioned some for us and some for him. “Brad said he wants me to make it again next time his mom travels. Said my sauce is better than hers.”
We talked for almost an hour. She asked about my day, really listened when I told her about Carlos, squeezed my hand when I said how exhausted I was. She was sweet. Attentive. But every story circled back to him.
When I finally asked what she did after the pool closed, she shrugged lightly.
“Walked back up with him. He carried my towel and bag. Brad said chivalry isn’t dead. Then we said goodnight at his door. He hugged me goodbye. Said today was the best day he’s had in a while.” She smiled again, softer this time, eyes bright.
I stared at her. She looked exactly the same on the outside. Same beautiful face, same curves, same everything. But inside she was different. Lighter. Bolder. Speaking in his rhythm. Quoting him like ***********ure. Vibrating with an energy that used to belong to us.
I leaned in and kissed her cheek. She kissed me back, quick and warm. “I’m glad you had fun,” I said.
She nodded, already reaching for her phone on the coffee table. “Me too. Brad texted me a pic of the sunset we watched. Said I should post it.” She opened the message right there, smiling at the screen.
Later that night the apartment was quiet again, the same heavy silence that settles after midnight when the city outside finally winds down. The clock on the nightstand glowed 1:47 a.m. I had been lying awake for hours, eyes open in the dark, listening to the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional car rolling past downstairs. Kristen had fallen asleep beside me earlier, or at least I thought she had. Her breathing had been slow and even for a while.
Then the mattress shifted. She slipped out of bed without a sound, bare feet padding across the floor. The bathroom door clicked shut, soft but deliberate. A thin line of light appeared under the door.
I stayed perfectly still, heart already picking up speed. I knew what was coming.
Her voice drifted through the thin wall, low and hushed, but clear enough in the quiet apartment. Whispering into the phone again.
“No, are you crazy? Haha.” A soft giggle followed, the kind that started high and ended breathless.
A pause. Then another laugh, quieter this time.
“You are so mean haha.”
More silence. I could picture her leaning against the sink, phone pressed to her ear or on speaker, free hand covering her mouth to muffle the sound.
“Okay, but you promise you’ll erase, right?”
The words hung there. My stomach clenched hard. Erase what? A photo? A video? Something she’d sent earlier? Something new she was about to send now?
Another giggle, nervous but excited.
“Fine… just this once. But seriously, delete it after. I mean it.”
A soft click. The camera shutter again. Once. Twice. Maybe she was posing in the mirror, T-shirt hiked up, or maybe she’d slipped the shirt off completely. Maybe she was biting her lip the way she did when she felt daring. Maybe she was thinking about how he’d react when he opened it.
I kept my breathing slow and deep, eyes closed, body limp like I was dead asleep. She couldn’t know I was listening. Couldn’t know how every word cut deeper.
A few more murmurs I couldn’t make out, then the water ran for a second, cover for whatever she was doing. The light flicked off. The door eased open.
She slipped back under the covers, cool skin brushing mine for a second before she turned away, facing the wall. She sighed once, content, then her breathing evened out again almost immediately.
I didn’t move. Didn’t open my eyes. Didn’t ask a single question.
I just lay there in the dark, wide awake, replaying every fragment I’d heard.
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