The loud music from the living room thrummed through the floorboards of the hallway, a dull, rhythmic reminder of a party Frankie clearly didn't want to be at. He stood there, framed by the dim light of the corridor, looking less like the impulsive man who had spent multiple feverish nights in your bed and more like a stranger in the life he was trying to salvage.

His three year old daughter was a heavy, sleeping weight against his shoulder, her small hand tucked into the collar of his shirt. It was a picture of domestic devotion, the exact image Gabriela had been selling to the room for the last three hours.

“We’re choosing us,” she’d told the group, her hand resting pointedly on Frankie’s arm. “For the family. Therapy is the first step.”

You hadn’t moved since he’d cornered you near the coats. The silence between you was heavy, dissolving the lingering scent of his cologne that used to make you feel chosen, rather than hidden.

“I didn’t plan for her to say that,” Frankie hissed, his voice a low, quiet whisper to avoid waking the child. His eyes were bloodshot and frantic. “The divorce...it-it was real, I swear it was. But then the lawyers started talking about custody, and Gabby started crying, and I just... I couldn’t do it to her. To my kid.”

“You ghosted me for two weeks, Frankie,” you said, your voice steady despite the heat rising in your chest. You weren't interested in the reasoning behind his guilt. “You could have sent a text. You could have told me you were playing house again instead of letting me find out through a toast at a birthday party.”

“I was trying to protect you from this!” he countered, shifting the weight of his daughter. The movement was so tender it made your stomach turn. “I thought if I just stopped calling, it would be easier. Like it never happened.”

“Don’t do that,” you snapped, stepping closer, your voice dropping to a dangerous level. “Don’t pretend you were being noble. You made promises. You talked about ‘after.’ You told me you were done.”

Frankie’s face hardened, the vulnerability flickering out like a dying bulb. The pressure of his double life, the looming therapy sessions, and the suffocating weight of the child in his arms finally snapped his patience. He looked at you, really looked at you, and the warmth you thought you’d shared was replaced by a cold, defensive barrier.

“Then maybe you’re the one who’s delusional,” he spat, the words landing like a slap. “What did you actually think was going to happen here? I was a man losing my mind and my marriage, looking for an exit. You were there. But did you honestly think hooking up with a married man, a father, was ever going to have a happy ending? You knew exactly what this was, so don’t act like I’m the only one who lied to themselves.”

He adjusted his daughter one last time, turning his back on you to head toward the front door where his wife was undoubtedly waiting.