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Erik
Erik had just opened his laptop when his phone buzzed. They needed to pitch investors next week, and the deck was a mess.
His annoyance evaporated when he saw Stacie’s name.
He smiled before he could stop himself — a reflex that would have embarrassed him if anyone else were there to see it.
Ughhhh.
He leaned back in his chair.
Erik had a feeling he knew what this was about.
No good, huh? How’s our guy doing?
He watched the typing bubble appear and disappear, imagining her on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, hair still damp from the shower. The domestic intimacy of the image made something tighten in his chest — he was an outsider picturing the inside of someone else’s life.
He’s pouting. I just can’t.
Erik winced in sympathy — for Tom, he told himself — though a small, irrepressible warmth spread through him at the fact she was telling him.
He had seen the vacation photos. Tom looked solid, grounded. The kind of man who installed ceiling fans and remembered to change furnace filters.
Men like that got the girl.
Men like Erik got… practice.
And yet here they were.
Wasn’t this his idea?
Yeah. We both wanted something new.
Erik pictured Tom at the sink and immediately felt guilty for the flicker of triumph that followed.
He did not earn this.
He did not deserve this.
But God, it felt good to be wanted.
Where is he now?
Sulking. In the kitchen. Cleaning dishes that are already clean.
Erik closed his eyes and pictured it: a sponge disintegrating under unnecessary pressure, a man trying to scrub away a feeling that would not come off.
“Stacie?”
Yes?
“Make sure to kiss him goodnight.”
Omg stopppppp. Goodnight ?.
Erik stared at the screen after the chat closed, grinning like an idiot.
Then, because the grin felt a little too good, he shut the laptop and sat in the quiet apartment, trying unsuccessfully to wipe the look off his face.
This was insane.
Unfair.
And he could not pretend he wasn’t enjoying it.
?
Stacie
Stacie smiled as she shut down the app she used to message Erik.
It had started with three guys. Now it was only him.
She leaned against the hallway wall for a moment, letting the quiet of the house settle around her. A buoyant feeling lingered in her chest — light, effervescent, almost like she’d had a glass of wine on an empty stomach.
She felt buoyed. Desired. Chosen.
Powerful, if she was being honest.
Not in a cruel way. Just in the sense that something inside her — something that had felt dormant for years — was awake and stretching.
At 33, when she met Erik, she had no more idea what she liked in bed than when she met Tom ten years ago. Three months later she knew exactly what she liked: to shut her brain off and become something soft, mindless, adored. Erik didn’t demand performance. He appreciated.
When she looked up at his eager, ecstatic face, she felt perfect.
Tom had been different. Strong. Serious. Intent. As if they were doing something vitally important every time they touched. It had been good — until it wasn’t. Until it became the same every time. Until she felt trapped inside a script neither of them knew how to revise.
She hadn’t known how to say that without hurting him.
So she didn’t.
She stepped into the kitchen and saw Tom at the sink, shoulders tight, scrubbing with unnecessary force.
A small, complicated warmth spread through her.
For years she had wondered if he still saw her — or if she had simply become part of the architecture of his life: dependable, loved, but backgrounded.
And now here he was, bristling with an emotion he couldn’t hide.
It made her feel guilty.
It also made her feel visible.
She slid her arm around his waist and felt the tension in him like a live wire.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Too sharp. She pretended not to notice.
“You wanna?”
When he refused, two currents moved through her at once:
Relief — because she didn’t want to navigate the fragile terrain of his hurt tonight.
And a faint lift, like rising half an inch off the ground, at the proof that he cared enough to be wounded.
Where was this urgency before? a quiet voice asked — not accusing, just observing.
She watched him scrub the pan long after it was clean.
Watched the rigid line of his shoulders.
Watched the effort it took for him not to turn around.
Stacie leaned against the counter a moment longer than necessary, suspended between tenderness and something more dangerous — the sense that the balance of their marriage had shifted, and she was still learning where the weight now rested.
Then she kissed the back of his shoulder and went to bed.
?
Tom
When he had suggested they see other people, Tom had really meant for him to see other people.
It wasn’t that he thought Stacie didn’t have the same right — he believed in fairness. In theory.
It simply never occurred to him she would want to.
Looking back, Tom could admit he had a few blind spots.
He had started looking before he told her. In fact, he only told her when he thought he had found someone — a woman who laughed at his dry jokes and touched his arm when she talked — only for her to ghost him after two dates.
Now Stacie had Erik.
And Tom tried not to picture what that meant.
He failed constantly.
When he heard her key in the door — after three hours, three hours — he shoved his phone into his pocket and went to the sink, attacking the pan he’d used for dinner as if the thin film of oil were something stubborn and alive.
She stepped inside wearing gym clothes, nothing special — which somehow made it worse. The shorts exposed the back of her thighs, his favorite part of her, and his body reacted before his mind could stop it.
He imagined Erik seeing them.
His chest tightened. The thought burned — and, confusingly, sparked something hot and electric low in his stomach.
Tom scrubbed harder.
She slid an arm around his waist.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Too sharp. He heard it immediately.
“You wanna?”
God, he did.
He wanted her with an urgency that felt humiliating — wanted to pull her against him, reclaim something, erase the imagined images flickering through his mind.
But what if she said yes out of pity?
What if she was somewhere else while he touched her?
What if she compared?
The heat inside him collapsed into something hollow.
“Just go to sleep,” he said. “I’ll finish cleaning up.”
He adjusted himself at the sink and felt a wave of shame at the involuntary response of his own body.
He scrubbed the pan long after it was clean, feeling like the most noble martyr in the world.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
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