Four years of marriage, five years of dating. Nine years together—and in all that time, you'd never seen Rayleigh without his beard and long hair.

Not once.

You'd gotten used to the way his beard tickled your cheeks when he kissed you, the way his hair (annoyingly healthier than yours, the handsome jerk) fell over his shoulders when he leaned over his work—old ship blueprints, historical texts about ancient pirates, or lecture notes, the kind of thing only a historian-slash-shipwright could get excited about.

So when you walked into the bar near your office for happy hour with your coworkers, the last thing you expected was for a stranger to compliment the necklace Rayleigh gave you.

The stranger wore a long trench coat and round glasses. His smile was disarmingly charming, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. Something about him—his genuine grin, his soft eyes, the way he spoke—pulled you back nine years to when you first met your husband. The man you loved more than anything.

And then you started talking.

He asked all the right questions.

About your work, your interests, that book you'd been reading. He laughed at your jokes like he'd heard them a thousand times before, and they still delighted him. There was this gleam in his eyes—something you mistook for interest, maybe flirtation—but it made your heart skip in a way that felt both exciting and dangerous. He knew exactly how to keep the conversation going, like he could read you like an open book.

Maybe it was his smile. Maybe his eyes. Maybe the alcohol buzzing through your veins.

But you talked to him all night.

Your coworkers left hours ago. You barely noticed. He listened when you rambled about your day, nodded in all the right places, ordered your favorite drink without you even telling him what it was—

Wait. How did he know?

The thought flickered through your mind too late. You were already laughing at something he said, already feeling that familiar comfort you only ever felt with—

No. Stop. This was a stranger.

You talked to a stranger. All. Night.

And now it's morning.

You're sitting on the couch, face buried in your hands, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. Guilt crushes your chest like a weight you can't shake off. You stayed out late. You came home to find Rayleigh already asleep, his back turned to you in bed, and you'd crawled in beside him, feeling like the worst person alive.

You flirted. With someone who wasn't Rayleigh.

Footsteps creak on the stairs.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

His voice is too happy. Too light. Like he doesn't know what you did. Your husband—your Rayleigh—sits beside you, arm sliding around your waist. He presses a kiss to your temple, warm and familiar.

"Look at me," he murmurs softly.

But you can't. Not yet.