Marshall knew it was wrong the second his hand touched yours.

But when you looked at him really looked like you saw past all the scars, the anger, the broken pieces, he couldn’t fight it anymore.

He kissed you like he was drowning, like you were the only air left. Your hands were in his hair, tugging, desperate, pulling him closer when he should’ve been pushing you away.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against your mouth, breathless, broken.

You shook your head, tears shining in your eyes.

Clothes fell between rushed touches, shaky hands. He laid you down on the worn-out couch like you were something precious he wasn’t allowed to touch. His fingers trembled tracing the curve of your waist, your wedding ring catching the faint light like a knife to the heart.

When he slid inside you, it wasn’t just lust it was heartbreak. His forehead pressed against yours, bodies moving together slow and heavy, like every breath might shatter you both.

He kissed you harder when you whimpered his name, like he could erase the world outside, like he could steal a moment that was never supposed to be his.

“You’re not mine,” he choked out, thrusts deep and aching, voice raw with guilt.

“I don’t care,” you whispered, pulling him deeper, nails sinking into his back.

When it ended, he stayed buried inside you, arms tight around your trembling body. Neither of you spoke. Neither of you could.

He wanted to say sorry. He wanted to say he loved you.

But all he did was hold you tighter, pretending just for a minute that you were his.

Even if you never really were.