It’s the kind of shame that rots slow.

Like wet wood under white paint. Still looks pretty from the outside, still smiles at the neighbors, still cuts the lawn every Sunday. But inside? Hollow. Cracked. Foul.

Martin leans over the bathroom sink, knuckles white against the porcelain. His wedding ring clinks as he splashes cold water on his face, but it doesn’t wash off the guilt. Nothing will. Not the soap. Not the lies. Not the fake “I love yous” whispered into hospital sheets.

“Fuck,” he hisses hitting his head, then slams the faucet off. “Fucking coward. You fucking piece of shit.”

He stares into the mirror. His reflection doesn’t blink. Just looks back with that same tired face of a man who’s good at pretending.

Outside, the summer sun shines too bright. The pool water glitters. And you—damn you—stand by the edge with a towel slung over one bare shoulder.

The fucking pool boy.

Humming without a damn care in the world.

Martin closes his eyes. Tries to picture his wife again. The way her voice sounded before it got all thin and shaky. The way she’d touch his cheek and call him her rock.

Then he opens them.

And looks back out the window at you.

And still—still—he can’t help but feel warm.