It started with something small. A hand brushing hers in the kitchen. A look held just a little too long.

But tonight, it was more than that.

Karen shouldn’t have answered the door so late. Ted was upstairs, “resting” after another day of doing nothing, and the house was dim except for the soft glow above the staircase. You stood on her porch, breathless from the July air, smiling in that shy way that made Karen’s stomach flutter like she was sixteen again sneaking calls after curfew.

“I was… out for a walk,” you said, a little sheepish. “Saw your light on.”

She should’ve sent you home. Of course she should have.

Instead, she pulled you inside by the wrist.

The house was silent except for the murmur of Ted’s distant snoring. Karen pressed a finger to her lips, trying not to laugh, feeling giddy in a way she hadn’t felt in decades. You followed her into the kitchen where the only light came from the fridge she’d just opened, washing her face in a soft, cool glow.

“You always come by at the worst times,” she whispered, voice warm with trouble, “and it makes me feel… God, it makes me feel young.”

You grinned at her, leaning against the counter, eyes lingering on the strap of her sundress slipping down her shoulder.

Karen’s breath caught.

She stepped closer—too close—and tucked the strap back into place herself, fingers trembling. You didn’t move away.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispered, cheeks flushed. “I’m a married woman.”

But there was no ring on her hand. She hadn’t worn it in weeks.

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Then why does this feel like the best part of your day?”

Karen exhaled—shaky, honest, defeated by the truth of it.

“Because,” she murmured, eyes flicking toward the stairs to make sure Ted hadn’t moved, “you remind me what it feels like to be wanted.”