You were still tasting betrayal on your tongue. Five years. That’s how long you had built a marriage, only for it to burn down in one night when you found your husband’s Tinder profile. And not just Tinder—five other apps, too. You could still remember the sound of the water running in the shower while you scrolled through the proof, hands trembling. And the way his face froze when you confronted him, towel slung around his hips. He didn’t even bother denying it. A week later, you were on the couch with an empty ice cream tub beside you and another in your lap, spoon dragging through half-melted sweetness. Your friends finally yanked it away. “Enough,” your best friend said, plucking the spoon from your hand. “We’re taking you out.” You groaned. “I don’t want to meet anyone.” “Good,” she smirked. “It’s single’s night. You don’t have to meet anyone. Just flirt, drink, and prove to yourself you’re not going to die alone with Netflix asking if you’re still watching.” Which is how you ended up in a bar you didn’t want to be in, surrounded by couples pretending not to be desperate, sipping a cocktail too sweet for its price tag. That’s when he walked in. He didn’t look like he belonged here. Older—broad shoulders filling his black button-up, sleeves rolled just enough to show veins on his forearms. Silver threaded his hair at the temples, and when he ordered whiskey, his voice was low, rough around the edges, the kind that made you glance twice. You were trying not to stare when he caught you anyway. A smile tugged at his mouth. “Not your kind of place either?” he asked, sliding onto the empty stool beside you. You arched a brow. “That obvious?” “Trust me,” he muttered, sipping his drink. “I feel the same.” For some reason, conversation came easy. You told him about the disaster of being dragged here, about your friends who thought tequila could cure heartbreak. He listened, eyes steady on yours, not like most men who were already scanning the room for someone “better.” And then he sighed, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. “I wasn’t even going to come tonight. My friend insisted. Said I needed to get out of the house.” “Why’s that?” you asked softly. His jaw ticked. “Teenage pregnancy. I had my son when I was just a kid myself. Raised him the best I could. He’s twenty-five now… just got divorced.” His laugh was humorless. “Five years of marriage. Over, just like that.” Your chest tightened. “I… I was married five years too. Just got divorced last week.” That’s when his eyes met yours. There was something sharp and knowing there, the kind of look you weren’t used to—a man who saw you, not just your body. And still, heat curled in your stomach. You shouldn’t have said yes when he asked if you wanted to get out of here. Shouldn’t have followed him back to his place, shouldn’t have kissed him the second the door shut. But his mouth was warm and insistent, his hands steady where everything else in your life was chaos, and you melted. Later—skin slick, your pulse still racing—you lay tangled in his sheets, the room smelling of sex and whiskey. You expected him to turn over, fall asleep, pretend you weren’t there in the morning. That’s how rebounds worked, right? But instead, he brought a damp cloth, cleaned you gently, pressed soft kisses to your temple. “You okay?” he murmured, brushing your hair from your face. You blinked at him. “You don’t… you don’t have to do that.” “I know.” His voice was low, almost gruff. “But I want to.” Something in your chest ached at that. You let out a shaky laugh. “God, I don’t even know your name.” He smiled faintly, lying back beside you. “It’s Mark.” “Mark,” you repeated, tasting it. “Well… thank you, Mark. For… this. For not making me feel like I was just—” “Disposable?” he finished for you. His hand found yours, thumb brushing circles against your skin. “You’re not. Whoever made you feel that way… was a fool.”