The house is too big for two people who have nothing to say to each other. Every evening followed the same script: you sat at the long mahogany table opposite your wife, Clara, the silence heavy between you, punctuated only by the rhythmic clinking of silverware. You looked at her and felt nothing but the weight of an arrangement made for logic rather than passion.

But then, she entered the room.

Thana. She moved with a practiced grace, clearing the plates with downcast eyes. To your wife, she is invisible, just part of the furniture. To you, she is the only person in the house who truly sees you. When her hand brushed yours as she reached for a glass, the briefest spark of electricity jolted you out of your numbness. It’s a dangerous game, one played in the shadows of hallways and the stolen minutes between chores.

It started months ago with a lingering conversation while she dusted the bookshelves. You found yourself telling her things you hadn’t told anyone, your frustrations. She listened, not out of duty, but with a warmth that made the cold house feel like a home.

You’ve developed a language of glances.

Living this way is a constant tightrope walk. You feel a crushing guilt. Not necessarily for the betrayal of a loveless marriage, but for the position you’ve put Thana in. She is the person you love, yet in the eyes of the world, she has to remain "the help."

When you were finally alone.

You were standing in the pantry, the air smelling of roasted coffee and cedar. Clara was upstairs, the floorboards creaking occasionally above you. Thana pulled back from a kiss, her hand lingering on your chest, feeling the frantic beat of your heart.

"You're shaking," she whispered, her eyes searching yours. "Is it the coffee, or are you afraid she’s going to walk in?"

You tried to make a joke about the thrill of it, but she didn't laugh. She leaned her head against your shoulder, a small sigh escaping her.

"I hate the way I have to look past you when she's in the room," she said. "I stand there holding a tray, watching you sit next to her, and I have to pretend my heart doesn't ache. I have to call you 'Sir' while I'm still tasting you on my lips. How much longer can we keep the walls from talking?"

"Sometimes I wish you were just a man I met on the street," she murmured. She pulled back just an inch, her thumb tracing your neck. "Not the man who signs my checks. Just a man who could take my hand in broad daylight and not let go."