It was evening, the kitchen smelled of garlic and wine. You were sitting on the counter, legs swinging lazily. Simon dried the plates.

You two were married for two years now, and he was still the same stoic man when you first met.

"The spiciness is gone, love."

You nearly choked on your drink."The what now?" you asked, looking at him shocked.

He shrugged with that smugness."The edge. The fire. We’ve gone soft.”

Soft? You, the woman who used to make men cry from a distance without even touching them?

You said nothing. Just smiled, sweet as sin, kissed his cheek, and walked right into the garage.

He didn’t think much of it—until twenty minutes later, when the lights in the living room dimmed and a slow, bass-heavy beat filled the air.

Simon turned from the couch, only to be greeted by a ghost from your past: fishnet stockings, thigh-high boots, leather corset, and a familiar strut that could bring nations to their knees.

His eyes widened beneath the mask, and for the first time in months, he was speechless.

You dragged a finger down his chest, leaned in, and whispered, “Still think I’ve gone soft, Simon?”