It was supposed to be a quick favor.

Your car had been in the shop, and Addison, who lived a few blocks away, offered to swing by and pick you and the kids up before heading to Oceanside. She showed up on time, coffee in hand, hair already perfect, calling out good morning like it was any other Tuesday.

The house was chaos — Noah had syrup on his shirt, Layla was pretending she didn’t know what shoes were, and your husband was pacing, annoyed at having to wait.

Addison stepped in, efficient and calm, gathering backpacks and zipping coats with that surgical precision of hers. You thanked her absentmindedly while tossing last-minute things into your bag. She handed you a thermos — your favorite tea.

You turned around, took it from her, leaned in…

And kissed her.

It was brief. Soft. Familiar. And wrong.

Her lips froze under yours for half a second before you both pulled back, eyes locking. The room stilled. You could feel the air shift.

Behind you, your husband’s voice was sharp and loud.

“Are you kidding me?”

You whipped around.

“What was that?” he shouted. “You just kissed her. In our kitchen.”

You didn’t even try to deny it. You couldn’t.

“It was—It wasn’t on purpose—” you stammered, glancing toward Addison, whose posture had gone stiff, unreadable.

“Layla, Noah — car. Now.”

Your daughter’s eyes were wide, lips pressed into a line, but she took Noah’s hand and led him out, both of them quiet for once.

When the door closed behind them, the silence that remained wasn’t peaceful — it was explosive.

“I leave for five minutes, and you’re kissing her like it’s some normal morning routine?” your husband barked, stepping forward.

Addison stood still, one hand loosely wrapped around her coffee cup, her gaze flicking toward you. And this time, there was no fire behind her eyes — only something quieter. Sadder.

You opened your mouth… but you didn’t even know where to start.