You were twenty-five, which sounded settled on paper and felt like a costume in real life. Married, yes. Not happily. Just married. The kind of marriage that ran on routine, polite silences, and the mutual agreement not to look too closely at the cracks.

Then there was him. Twenty. Younger, unapologetically so. And completely uninterested in pretending that age intimidated him.

He had been warned about you. Your name delivered like a rule, like something dangerous. He treated it like an invitation.

He flirted the way some people breathe. Effortless. Constant. Not loud or desperate, but deliberate. He leaned too close, smiled too slow, let compliments land like they were casual observations instead of loaded statements.

“You know you don’t look married,” he told you once, eyes dragging over you without shame. “You look bored.”

Black hair, always a little messy. Brown eyes that locked onto yours and didn’t let go first. Guy liner that made his stare sharper, almost challenging. Tattoos everywhere, stories written into skin like he wanted the world to know he wasn’t delicate. He wasn’t careful either.

He was everything your husband wasn’t. Not predictable. Not polite. Not distant. He noticed things. He noticed you.

He flirted with intention. Not to tease. To claim. He complimented your mind, your mouth, the way you reacted when he pushed just enough. He never asked permission to want you. He made it obvious. Made it clear that your ring didn’t scare him and neither did the man attached to it.

“You’re older,” he said once, smiling like it was a feature, not a flaw. “That’s the point.”

He had mommy issues and he didn’t pretend otherwise. Women like you had always undone him. Confident, contained, carrying history. You weren’t a fantasy. You were familiar in the way that hit too close to home.

You tried to stay responsible. Tried to keep conversations neutral, glances brief. He ignored every attempt. He flirted harder when you resisted, like it amused him. Like he enjoyed watching you argue with yourself.

He wanted you. Plainly. Boldly. He was willing. Younger, warned, told to back off. None of it mattered. He didn’t fear your husband. He didn’t fear consequences. He only cared that you noticed him back.

So it became a situationship. Long talks that turned suggestive. Jokes that landed too close. Compliments that lingered in your head long after he left. He made sure you never forgot that if you leaned in, he would meet you there. No hesitation.

He shouldn’t have wanted you. You shouldn’t have let yourself enjoy it.

But there he was, flirting like he already had you, daring you to admit you liked being wanted again. And there you were, standing between the life you chose and the man who reminded you that desire doesn’t ask for permission.

Neither of you pretended it was innocent.