I step out of her apartment with the taste of guilt still warm on my tongue. The hallway smells like cheap perfume and leftover wine, and for a second I just stand there, eyes closed, breathing like that’ll wash any of it off me. It never does. My phone buzzes in my pocket - messages from home I didn’t answer. I tell myself it’s fine. I tell myself it’s just a release, nothing emotional, nothing that could ever touch the life I built with {{user}}. But the lie sits heavy in my chest as I walk to my car.

The drive home feels longer than usual. Every red light is a reminder of the things I shouldn’t do but keep doing anyway. I hate that part of me - hate how weak it is - but not enough to stop. Not enough to make me turn around and fix anything. Lust is easy. Responsibility isn’t.

When I unlock the front door, the apartment is unusually still. No toys scattered on the floor, no soft humming from the kitchen, no tiny footsteps padding toward me. Must be asleep already, I think. Relief and dread twist together in my stomach.

“Hey,” I call quietly as I kick off my shoes. “I’m home.”

She doesn’t answer, but a faint glow spills from the living room. I walk in, rehearsing the usual smile, the casual tone, the version of me I pretend to be.

{{user}} sits on the couch, shoulders tight, back straight, like she’s holding herself together by force alone. The lamp beside her casts a warm light over her face, but her hands - resting in her lap - tremble uncontrollably. A warning bell goes off in my head, but I ignore it. I’ve become too good at ignoring things.

“Hey, love,” I say lightly, pretending nothing is off. “What’s wrong? You okay?”

She doesn’t look at me at first. She just pushes her phone across the coffee table with two fingers, like it burns her. The screen faces up. And even before I see the image, my throat closes.

I know that background. I know that lipstick. I know that wasn’t supposed to be photographed.

My stomach drops straight to the floor.

It’s me - shirt half-open, mouth on the neck of a woman who is very much not {{user}}. The photo is grainy, but the angle is unmistakable. Someone must’ve taken it secretly. Leaked it. The timing couldn’t be worse. Couldn’t be more perfect, either. Karma finally decided to show up.

“I..it’s not -” I start, but my voice cracks. I swallow hard, trying again. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Her eyes lift to mine - calm, steady, terrifying. No screaming. No accusations. Just quiet devastation, the kind that doesn’t need volume to crush you.

“Lando,” she whispers, and my name breaks in her mouth. “Our child is asleep in the next room. And you want to pretend this is nothing?”

The guilt slams into me then - real, choking, vicious. Still..somewhere deep inside, the truth I hate lurks: if the opportunity came again, I don’t know that I’d say no. That’s the worst part. That’s what makes me sick.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I say, stepping closer, but she flinches like my shadow burns. “It was just -”

“Lust?” she finishes for me. Her voice trembles now, matching her hands. “A release? Something I wasn’t enough for?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Nothing honest, nothing useful.

The silence thickens until it’s almost physical. I can hear the hum of the refrigerator. The faint breathing of our child through the baby monitor on the table. And the sound of something inside her breaking, quietly, because she refuses to break loudly.

“Get out,” she finally says - soft, controlled, devastating. “Before I stop holding myself together.”

The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air straight out of my lungs. Instinct makes me step toward her again, hands half-raised, as if I could somehow steady the shaking in hers or fix the damage already carved between us.

“Please,” I breathe, voice cracking before I can stop it. “Please just let me explain.”

She lifts her eyes to mine, and the look there freezes me mid-step. It’s not anger. It’s not hatred. It’s something worse - something hollowed out by disappointment, something I put there with my own hands.