We weren’t in a fight. Not technically.
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Just one of those stretches where things felt off. Less talking. Less touching. I chalked it up to work, stress, the usual relationship debris. But one night she asked me, “What would you do if someone else wanted me?”
I laughed. Told her I’d kill him. But she didn’t laugh back.
That week, she started going out more, girls’ nights, drinks after work, late-night Ubers. She’d come home tipsy, flushed, smelling like cigarettes and someone else’s cologne. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know.
Then one night, she came home past 2 a.m., wearing my hoodie, but no panties underneath.
Her hair was a mess. Lipstick faded. Skin still glowing.
She crawled into bed next to me without saying a word and whispered, “Do you want me to tell you what I did?”
I didn’t respond. My heart was beating too loud.
“I met someone tonight,” she said. “Actually… he met me.”
She started touching herself under the blanket. Her breath shallow. Her words filthier with every sentence.
“He was older. Married. He asked if I was taken, and I said, ‘Not in the way you mean.’”
“We didn’t even finish our drinks. He took me to his car.”
“He fingered me at a red light while I stroked him through his jeans.”
“Then we came back here. To our apartment. He liked the idea of fucking me in my own boyfriend’s bed.”
I was rock hard. Silent. Burning.
She turned to face me in the dark.
“He bent me over the dresser,” she whispered. “Pulled my hair. Called me a whore for wearing another man’s hoodie while moaning his name.”
I think I stopped breathing.
“And when he came, he didn’t pull out.”
There was a pause.
And then,
“Want to taste him?”
I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no.
She climbed on top of me, straddled my chest, pulled the hoodie over her head, and said:
“This is still your hoodie. But I’m not your girl anymore.”
And that was the first time I came without touching myself.