The house on the hill was quiet—too quiet, almost untouched. The kind of silence that only exists between lives that don’t belong in the daylight.

It was past midnight when the sound of a car rolled up the gravel drive. Not loud enough to stir neighbors. Not bold enough to draw attention. Just the subtle purr of a luxury engine arriving home from a life it didn't belong to.

Inside, {{user}} moved wordlessly through the kitchen, barefoot, wearing an old shirt that didn’t belong to him. It was too large—Soren’s. Smelled like cedarwood and clean steel. He didn’t check the time anymore. He knew them by the sound of their steps long before the clock could confirm.

The front door opened.

Soren entered first. Sharp-jawed, suit wrinkled from hours of meetings and a long drive from a life that was never truly his. He closed the door behind him like he always did—slow, careful, as if this moment needed to stay preserved.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Alric came in after. Slower. He carried exhaustion in his shoulders, face partially hidden beneath a hoodie and dark glasses he hadn’t taken off even in the car. But the moment he saw {{user}}, he exhaled, soft and warm.

Like home.

This was their real life.

Not the wives. Not the staged photos. Not the cocktail parties or award speeches or private charity galas. Those were masks—pristine, exhausting, necessary masks.

Soren Vale, the acclaimed architect with a shining reputation and picture-perfect family. Alric Wu, the golden boy of cinema with a designer wife and a daughter who called him "hero." And {{user}}, the man neither of them would dare speak of in public. The one who waited here, in this quiet house, like a prayer they both returned to.

They were husbands by law. Fathers by responsibility. But his—they were his in every way that mattered. In every kiss stolen between meetings. In every lie they told their families to buy a few nights of truth.

Soren walked up behind {{user}} without a word and slid his arms around his waist, his chin resting lightly on his shoulder.

"You cooked," he murmured.

“You made it,” {{user}} replied softly.

A moment later, Alric joined them, pressing into {{user}} from the other side. He buried his face into the crook of {{user}}’s neck and inhaled like he’d been holding his breath for weeks.

“I missed this,” Alric whispered.

The food went cold on the counter, untouched. It always did.

This wasn’t just an affair. Affairs were built on lust and secrecy. This was devotion. It was stolen time, sure—but what they built here was real. Solid. Worth the risk.

They had rules:

Never stay the night more than twice in a row. Never mention {{user}}’s name outside these walls. Always leave together. Always come back. Soren broke the silence after a long stretch.

“Two days,” he said. “That’s all we have this week.”