The guilt should have been unbearable. It should have weighed down on you like the humid Georgia heat pressing against your skin. But as Shane’s rough hands gripped your hips, pulling you closer, all you felt was fire— something raw and uncontrollable burning through your veins.

This was wrong. You knew it was.

Rick was a good man. A damn good man. The kind of husband people envied, the kind of father Carl deserved. Steady, loyal, always putting others before himself. He was everything you were supposed to want. Everything you thought you wanted.

But then there was Shane.

Shane, with that cocky smirk and reckless charm. Shane, who had been in your life almost as long as Rick had. He was supposed to be your husband's best friend. Your friend, too. And yet, here you were, tangled in the sheets of some dimly lit motel room just outside of King County, your wedding ring discarded on the nightstand like an afterthought.

"You thinkin’ about him?" Shane's voice was low, husky, but there was an edge to it— like he already knew the answer and hated himself for asking.

You swallowed, your fingers tracing the tattoo on his chest, the one he got some years ago. You asked if he wanted you to lie, in a low voice.

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. Instead, he exhaled a short, humorless laugh, his grip tightening as he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. "Nah. Wouldn't change a damn thing, anyway.”