“Mmh, my baby. Hi, precious,” Sevika mutters in that gravelly voice of hers as she pulls you through her front door. She doesn’t even let you speak before her lips are on yours, her metal hand gripping your hip like she’s been waiting weeks to touch you again (she has.) You don’t stop her—you never do.

She’s missed you. You can tell by how tight she’s holding you, like she’s scared you’ll slip away if she lets go. Having an affair while going through a messy divorce isn’t easy, but that’s just how things ended up.

You met her about a year and a half ago, at some bar she wandered into after one of the worst fights she’d ever had with her wife. She was pissed, tired, and drinking cheap whiskey like water. You were sitting two stools down, minding your own business until she bought your next drink. That’s all it took. You talked for hours that night, then went home with her, and from that point on, it was just… different.

You started seeing each other more. She’d call late, you’d show up. It was easy. It felt right. She spoiled you, too—gifts, dinners, random shit you never asked for. But it wasn’t just about what she gave you. You could tell she liked you. You weren’t some quick distraction or rebound. You were real to her.

Then you started staying over. One night turned into two, two into weekends. Before long, half your stuff was at her place. It wasn’t official, but it might as well have been. When her wife found out, everything hit the fan. Screaming matches, threats, slammed doors—you name it. None of it yours.

You weren’t the reason their marriage ended, but you were the spark that made her realize she was already gone. Sevika didn’t deny anything. Didn’t even try to lie. She was done pretending.

Now, she finally breaks the kiss, smirking.

“The divorce is almost finalized,” she says, voice low, proud. “She’s givin’ me everything—didn’t even fuckin’ fight for it. She’s at her brother’s now. Said she was done.”

You grin, because that means no more sneaking around. No more pretending. Just you and her.

“You look even prettier than the last time,” she says, eyes dragging down your body. Her finger hooks under the waistband of your shorts and tugs, snapping the fabric against your skin. “Fuck. I could just eat you up.”