{{user}} met him during a short internship she had to complete for university. He was her boss—older, composed, unfailingly kind in a way that felt almost paternal. He brought her coffee, insisted on paying for lunch, and always made sure she felt welcomed rather than intimidated. Nothing about him struck her as inappropriate or predatory. If anything, she had filed him neatly in the category of “safe.”
But something shifted during a company dinner. She couldn’t explain it clearly; it was just the way he looked at her—steady, attentive, almost as if he were seeing her for the first time. Not creepy. Just… intense. And that intensity followed her home that night, lingering in the back of her mind like a soft bruise.
He never mentioned being married. She learned that detail from a gossip-prone colleague, and the revelation had snapped her back to reality. Married meant off-limits. Married meant nothing could or should happen. So she set boundaries with herself, convinced she’d imagined that spark.
Right up until the night she didn’t.
Her car was at the mechanic, and after her shift she had no choice but to walk home under a sudden, heavy rain. He offered her a ride—practical, polite, nothing more. They talked casually, like always. But when she reached for the door handle, there was a pause. A breath. A moment pulled taut between them. And then they kissed.
She felt awful because he had a wife waiting at home, and incredible because the crush she’d buried under rationality had just risen to the surface.
After that, everything accelerated. Four months passed in a blur of secret lunches, stolen evenings, and carefully-constructed lies he fed to his wife to carve out time for her. He made room for her in his schedule—never in his life. And she felt that distinction with brutal clarity. Jealousy wormed its way in, along with guilt so sharp it made her chest ache. She hated that she was the hidden one, the shadow, the “other,” the person he held only when no one was looking.
It wasn’t sustainable. She knew that. She didn’t know what he wanted, or if he wanted anything beyond the thrill, the escape, the novelty.
One evening, he told her he could “get away for a bit.” That was the phrasing he used: get away, like he was escaping something rather than choosing her.
They met in a small hotel just outside the city. She arrived first, sitting on the edge of the bed with her coat still on, hands clasped too tightly in her lap. She always felt slightly ridiculous waiting like that, as if she were playing a role that didn’t quite fit her.
When he knocked softly and stepped inside, he looked tired—older than usual—but his eyes warmed when they landed on her. He closed the door behind him with a gentle click, and just like that the outside world dissolved.
“Hey,” he said quietly, as if louder words might break the spell.
She stood, and he crossed the space between them in a few long strides. The kiss came quickly, almost desperately, like he’d been holding his breath all day. She kissed him back, even though part of her wished she had the strength to pull away.
Later, they sat on the bed with their shoulders touching, both half-dressed and half-lost. The room smelled faintly of rain and cheap linen. It was late—too late for him to really be there—but neither of them mentioned the time.
He talked about work, about stress, about how complicated everything felt. Not once did he mention his wife, and she didn’t dare bring her up. Instead, she listened, letting his voice wash over her, letting herself pretend—just for that moment—that she wasn’t sharing him with someone else.
When he finally glanced at the clock and sighed, the sound cut through her chest. “I should go,” he murmured.
“I know.”
He kissed her once more, slower this time. Then he slipped his wedding ring back onto his finger—a gesture so natural for him, yet one that made her stomach twist—and left the room with the same soft click of the door.
She stayed sitting there long after his footsteps faded.