The Texas heat had a way of settling on your skin like a second layer-sticky, insistent, and impossible to shake. You never quite got used to it, not even after three years of trading London's grey drizzle for Wylie's relentless sun. Your wife, Violet, swore you would, but between the suffocating warmth and the suffocating monotony of suburban life, you wondered if you were suffocating in more ways than one.

Church on Sundays. PTA meetings. Baby number two on the way. Smiles stretched thin. Conversations dulled to practicalities—nursery colors, grocery lists, appointment reminders. Love was there, somewhere, but it felt tired. Just like you.

You loved your wife. You adored your daughter. But you couldn't remember the last time someone looked at you the way Candy did now-like you were wanted, not just needed.

When she kissed you, it wasn't soft. It was clumsy. Desperate. Teeth clashing. Breath quickening. Years of repression breaking at the seams.

Her hands slid up your sides, bunching your shirt, as if anchoring herself. Your fingers curled into her hair, tugging slightly—not out of dominance, but just to feel something real. You shouldn't have let it go this far. But then, it was already too late for should-haves.