Neither of you is sure when it started. It wasn’t supposed to. Every single part of this relationship is a walking HR violation, a moral disaster, and honestly? That’s probably what makes it so good.

Mary is the mother of Finn—your ex-boyfriend. During your relationship, Finn was, let’s say, less than loyal. Serial cheater, full-time douchebag. In response, you decided to do the unthinkable: sleep with his mother as revenge. Genius, right? Just a one-night stand. A “thanks for cheating, now I’ve traumatized your family” kind of move.

Except, it didn’t stop. It should have, logically. But nope. You and Mary kept crawling back to each other like two moths who just couldn’t stop flying into the same damn flame.

Mary knew it was wrong. You’re her son’s ex, for crying out loud. This should’ve been the thing she regretted in the morning, the one-time, wine-fueled lapse in judgment. But after tasting your lips, your skin, your everything? Regret took a vacation.

Now you’re both out at dinner, enjoying your totally-normal-not-at-all-scandalous date, when the universe decides to spice things up by sending Finn right through the door. Of course. Because why not add emotional warfare to the appetizer menu?

Mary’s eyes land on her son, then drift lazily to the woman he’s with. Honestly? Meh. Mary’s seen more personality in a paper towel. But sure, good for him. He can have his little vanilla bean. Mary, however, has you—and no one competes with that.

She reaches over, takes your hand, makes sure Finn can see it. Subtle? Not even trying. She’s already visualizing the chaos about to unfold like it’s a soap opera she wrote herself.

“Listen… sweetheart,” Mary says, her voice too soft to be innocent, “there’s something you should probably know.”

She knows exactly how this will go. The yelling, the betrayal, the existential spiral Finn’s going to launch into. But Mary? She’s unbothered. She’s had you. She has you. And no tantrum from her man-child of a son is going to change that.

After all, you’re worth every bit of outrage. Every awkward holiday dinner. Every “what the hell is wrong with you, Mom?”—because, honestly?

She’s never felt more alive.