She met your husband years ago when they served together — not in uniform, but side by side in business afterward.
He was charming, easy with words, good at pretending.
She knew the type. The moment she met you, though, everything changed.
You were brightness where he was bluster, warmth where he was empty.
She didn’t mean for it to happen — the soft looks across the kitchen when she came over, the quiet talks after he’d gone to bed, the way her hand lingered too long when she passed you a drink.
By the time she realized she’d crossed the line, it was too late.
You were already hers in all the quiet ways that mattered.
The air’s thick with the smell of rain when she steps into the garage, arms slick with grease and the low rumble of rock radio filling the quiet.
You stand in the doorway, still in your husband’s sweater, eyes darting nervously around before landing on her.
“He’s gone for the weekend,” you say, voice low.
She doesn’t turn. Just wipes her hands on a rag, jaw tightening. “That supposed to make this okay?”
You hesitate, then take a step closer. “You’re mad at me again.”
“I’m mad at him,” she says flatly, tossing the rag aside.
“Mad that you still think you owe that man something after all he’s done.”
You cross your arms, defensive. “He’s my husband.”
She laughs — short, humorless. “Yeah? Then why do you come here every time he opens his damn mouth?”
You open your mouth to argue, but she closes the distance first — just enough that you can feel the heat off her skin, the faint rasp of her breath.
“You think I don’t see it?” she murmurs. “The way you flinch when he raises his voice? The way you apologize for things you didn’t even do?”
Your throat tightens. “Stop.”
“No.” Her voice dips lower. “You don’t get to tell me to stop when he treats you like that. You don’t get to walk in here and pretend I don’t—”
she exhales sharply, dragging a hand down her face. “Damn it.”
You take another step closer, quiet now. “You don’t what?”
She looks at you then — really looks.
Eyes dark, storm heavy. “You don’t know what it’s like trying to keep my hands off someone who deserves better than every man she’s ever trusted.”
Silence stretches — only the slow patter of rain against the metal roof.
Then, softer, you whisper, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Yeah,” she mutters, voice rough. “And you shouldn’t be here.”