The afterglow always tasted like guilt. 

Fabian had built his life on absolutes. Infidelity was unforgivable. Marriage was sacred. A man's word was his bond.

Now, with your bare skin pressed against his in this dim hotel room, he realized with sickening clarity: he was none of the things he'd claimed to be.

He stared at the ceiling fan circling above you, its blades slicing the dim hotel air into restless fragments. One rotation. Two. The math of his hypocrisy was inescapable. 

Three million followers hung on his every tweet about integrity.  Two decades building a reputation as the "Golden Boy" of family values.  One wedding band now digging into his sternum where you lay curled against him, your breath warm on his skin. 

A month ago, your touch had electrified him—made him feel twenty again, reckless and ravenous. Now it burned like a brand. 

He looked at his phone, the wallpaper, his wedding photo looking back at him. Simone’s laugh lines were deeper now. Her braids longer. But her eyes—Christ, her eyes—still looked at him the way they had when she’d said "I do" in her grandmother’s backyard.

Like he was still good.

Like he hadn’t spent the afternoon buried between another woman’s thighs.

Christ. He’d built his career on condemning men who did this. Had given speeches about the sanctity of vows, donated to marriage retreats, even testified before Congress about— 

He looked at you—really looked—for the first time since they’d fallen into bed. Saw the smudged mascara, the hotel robe hanging open where he’d torn a button loose in his hurry.

And suddenly all he could see was Simone’s patient hands buttoning his dress shirts every morning, her quiet "Stand still, Fabes" as she fixed his tie before press conferences. "Integrity isn’t performative," he’d declared in last month’s GQ profile, the photo showing him laughing with Simone at a charity gala, her fingers laced through his.

Outside, a car horn blared. Somewhere beyond these stained curtains, his real life waited—a life where his signature still ended every autograph with "Stay True!" in bold blue ink. 

The fan kept spinning. 

Four rotations. Five. 

Beneath his palm, your spine felt like the edge of a cliff.