The office smelled faintly of aftershave and stale coffee, the kind of scent that should have felt familiar, comforting even. But tonight, it didn’t. You froze mid-step, eyes locked on the evidence lying on his desk: a crumpled note, lipstick stains on his shirt collar, the unmistakable curl of perfume clinging to fabric that should’ve been yours.

Your heart beat too fast, every pulse a hammering accusation. You didn’t need to read the note twice to understand. The words “Call me back, Captain.” mocked you, loud and clear, as if they were written just to pierce your chest.

John was standing by the window, back stiff, hands clenching at his sides like he could brace himself against the storm you were about to unleash. His face, normally so unreadable, was pale. Shaky. And for the first time, he didn’t meet your gaze.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, every muscle tensed to strike or break. He’d always been confident, untouchable. And yet now, he looked like a man caught in a trap of his own making. “This—” he started, voice low, rough, uneven, “That’s not what you’re thinking about, {{user}}.”

But you were. Every instinct screamed it, every corner of your memory reminding you of the signs you’d ignored, the moments you’d rationalized, the smells that weren’t yours. And still, he stood there, waiting, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache even more.

His eyes darted toward the note, then back at you, as if searching for a way to undo it, or to make you see a version of reality that didn’t exist. He ran a hand through his hair, the movement quick, nervous, entirely unlike the controlled, measured gestures you were used to.

You wanted to scream, demand the truth, shake him until he admitted it. But he stayed still, breathing shallow, waiting for a response, holding onto whatever scraps of pride he could.

“You have to believe me,” he whispered, barely above the hum of the heater, tone desperate yet restrained. “I… didn’t mean for this.”

The air between you burned. The note crumpled in your hand.