The Wedding Guest

The Wedding Guest

Claire watched the ice swirl in her glass, the amber liquid catching the dim bar light. Across from her, John was leaning on the table, his voice slurred with the weight of too many drinks and too much regret.

"I just--God, I don't know. I don't want to be that guy. You know, the sad divorcé at the wedding, everyone whispering about me. 'Poor John. Look at him. Still hasn't bounced back.'"

Mark took a slow sip of his beer. He didn't say much. He never did when John was around. Claire could feel it--the tension humming beneath the surface. She had seen that look before in her husband, that flicker of something dark whenever John cracked a joke she laughed too hard at.

"C'mon, John," Claire said, nudging his arm. "You should go. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking you're too broken to show up."

John scoffed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "Yeah, because there's nothing sadder than a guy going solo to a wedding."

"Then take a date," she said. "You're a catch. You could find someone."

John shook his head. "Not in a week. What kind of lunatic takes a first date to a wedding?"

Later that night, back home, Claire lay in bed, staring at the ceiling while Mark read beside her. She couldn't shake John's face from her mind--how lost he had looked.

"It's awful," she said, turning toward Mark. "What happened to him. I mean, Sarah just left him out of nowhere."

Mark grunted, flipping a page.

"And now this wedding--God, it's going to be so hard for him. Can you imagine going alone, knowing everyone is judging you?"

Mark exhaled slowly.

"Yeah," he said. "That sucks."

She turned onto her side, propping herself up on her elbow. "I just--I don't know. I feel bad for him."

Mark smiled to himself a bit at her remark. Yes, Claire felt bad for John. Every woman in town felt bad for John. And they all probably spent way too much time thinking about how he was doing.

Mark didn't dislike John. To the contrary, Mark and John had known each other for years--not just in the casual way that people who live in the same town do, but in the way that men who have spent hours together on the sidelines of kids' soccer games, nursing beers at dads' nights out, and sharing rounds at the local pub do. They weren't best friends, but they were solid--part of the same circle, woven together by proximity, routine, and the unspoken camaraderie of fatherhood.

When John's marriage collapsed six months ago, Mark had been there. They all had--Mark, Claire, and their group of friends. They listened, they bought him drinks, they let him vent. And when John moved into an apartment just around the corner from their house, their lives naturally began to intersect even more. Mark ran into him at the store, at the coffee shop, jogging past their house. Claire, too.

And that part, if Mark was being honest, was the part that nagged at him.

He told himself it wasn't a big deal. John was a good-looking guy--it was just a fact. He had an incredible build, the kind of physique that made people assume he lived at the gym, when really, it was just decades of playing and coaching baseball. And then there was the job--high school teacher, baseball coach. The guy was practically engineered to be swooned over. Every mom in town had, at one point or another, giggled a little too much around him. Why should Claire be any different?

But still, it bothered him.

Mark had never voiced it--never would--but every time he and Claire ran into John, he felt that same, familiar irritation crawl under his skin. Claire was so obviously attracted to him, and either didn't realize how obvious she was being or didn't care.

So when she lay in bed that night, after they'd seen John at the bar, going on about how much she felt for him, it registered a bit different for Mark. He felt bad for John too, but he wasn't about to fall asleep dreaming about the guy.

--

A couple of days later, Mark was halfway through his afternoon when his phone buzzed. A text from John.

Hey man, you around for a beer tonight?

Mark didn't think twice before responding. Yeah, sure.

That evening, they met at a pub just outside town, one of their usual spots. John had already grabbed a booth, and as soon as Mark sat down, a beer slid across the table toward him.

"Thanks," Mark said, taking a sip.

John leaned back, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "Listen, man, I just wanted to say thanks--to you and Claire. You guys have been really good to me."

Mark waved him off. "Come on. You don't have to say that."

"No, I do." John exhaled. "The other night... I was kind of a mess. I was drunk, and I probably said some dumb shit. I just appreciate you guys listening."

Mark shrugged. "Don't be crazy. You're going through it. I get it. Anything I can do to help, just let me know."

John looked at him. Hesitated.

"Well, now that you mention it..."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Oh boy."

John laughed, but there was a thread of nervousness in it. "So, I've been thinking about this. You and Claire were so good about this the other night. And you're the only people I've told about this, so I figured I'd ask."

"Ask what?"

John took a breath. "Could Claire come to the wedding with me?"

Mark blinked.

John held up his hands immediately. "Dude, do not get the wrong idea. I'm not trying anything out of bounds here. It would be strictly as friends. I swear. Scouts honor."

Mark stared at him, his mind tripping over itself. "What?"

John leaned forward. "It would just totally change the entire day for me, man. Like--imagine going alone versus walking in with Claire. Come on, you know your wife is hot. If she came, it would be the difference between me being the sad, lonely divorced guy, or the guy who's already dating beautiful women. The whole vibe changes."

Mark let out a low, disbelieving laugh. "That's... a fucked up idea."

John smirked. "I know."

They both laughed, but the air between them had shifted.

Mark took another sip of his beer. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious," John said. "I'm telling you, man. It would make all the difference. And I promise, nothing weird. Just friends at a wedding. And by the way, this wedding is gonna be insane--ceremony at Riverside Church, rooftop reception at the Peninsula. Claire would have a blast."

Mark ran a hand down his face. He couldn't believe he was even entertaining this.

"I don't know, man," he finally said. "Honestly. That's a big ask."

John nodded. "I get it. Just... think about it. Maybe talk to Claire."

Mark took a long sip of his beer.

"Yeah," he said finally. "I'll think about it."

--

Mark walked home slowly, the night air thick and warm, his mind buzzing louder than the crickets in the distance.

It was absurd. Completely fucking absurd.

John was his friend, and yet Mark felt that familiar gnawing unease twisting in his gut.

It wasn't just this one thing--this one request. It was the accumulation of little things over time. Claire and John had known each other for years, and every time they were together, it got under Mark's skin in a way he hated to admit. The way she laughed at John's jokes just a little too hard, the way her body language shifted around him, the way her eyes followed him when he walked away.

Mark told himself it was nothing. That she acted like that with everyone. Claire was friendly, warm, engaging. People were drawn to her, and she liked the attention. But John was different.

John was John.

A good-looking guy, ridiculously in shape. That kind of effortless athleticism that women instinctively responded to. On top of that, he was a high school teacher and baseball coach. The most mom-friendly profession in the world. Women loved him.

And Claire? She wasn't blind.

It had always annoyed Mark, but now, with this request hanging in the air, it bothered him.

Because, if he was honest with himself, objectively, there was a chance something could happen.

Claire was gorgeous. Even now, at forty-five, she was in better shape than most women in their twenties. Always had been, but lately? Jesus. She had rounded out in a way that made her body even more striking--curves in all the right places, toned legs, an ass that made guys do double-takes when she walked by. Mark wasn't stupid. He saw the way men looked at her. He knew they hit on her.

And in some ways, that turned him on. It always had.

It was something he had never admitted out loud, even to himself, until recently. But the truth was, he got a charge out of knowing other men wanted her--out of imagining the way they looked at her, the things they might say.

And he knew she looked at men too. In fact, over the years, he suspected she might have done more than look. She and her friends weren't angels. He knew damn well that on those girls weekends to Florida they flirted, danced, let guys buy them drinks. And, hell, maybe even more than that. He had spent more than a few sleepless nights driving himself crazy, wondering what might have happened.

And it wasn't just the girls' trips.

Years ago, at her high school reunion, Claire had reconnected with an old boyfriend. She swore nothing had happened, but Mark had felt something shift afterward. A distance, an energy. And even though the suspicions had made him sick at the time, now, looking back, he almost--almost--thought about it as a fantasy.

It was weird, how his mind worked now. As he got older, these ideas, these images of Claire being bad, didn't just haunt him--they enticed him. He thought about them when they were in bed together. Sometimes when he was alone. He even sought out stories and videos online that played into those fantasies.

But those were just thoughts. Private.

This? This was real.

This was John. Someone they knew. Someone who lived right around the corner. Someone he would have to see the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Someone Claire would see, and continue to have a relationship with. Nothing about this was abstract or distant.

And then there was the town.

People would find out. Gossip spread like wildfire here. The idea of people whispering, of the sideways glances, of anyone thinking something was going on between Claire and John--it made his stomach turn. That, he could not live with.

But maybe... maybe he was overthinking this.

Maybe Claire could just go as a friend. Maybe it was just a wedding, a favor. John wasn't an idiot. He wasn't a gossip. If they did this, no one in town could ever know. That would have to be the condition. John could keep his mouth shut.

Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

Fuck it.

He would mention it to Claire.

--

Mark sat on the couch, beer in hand, watching Claire move around the kitchen. She was cutting fruit, methodically, absentmindedly humming to herself. He watched the way her body moved, the way her jeans hugged her hips.

He took a sip of his drink.

He had told himself he was going to bring it up casually. Just slide it into conversation, see how she reacted. But now, sitting here, he realized there was no casual way to say this.

Still, he had to do it.

"Hey," he said finally.

She glanced up. "Hey what?"

He exhaled. "I saw John tonight."

She looked at him fully now, interested. "Oh yeah? How's he doing?"

Mark smirked. "Well... that's the thing."

Claire arched an eyebrow. "What thing?"

"He, uh... he asked me something. Something kinda weird."

That got her attention. She set down the knife. "Weird how?"

"He, uh... he asked if you would go to the wedding with him."

Silence.

Claire blinked, her expression unreadable. "What?"

Mark gave a short, dry laugh. "Yeah. He, uh, pitched it like it would totally change the night for him. Said if you went, it would keep him from looking like the sad divorcé. That it would give him confidence. Strictly as friends, obviously."

Claire tilted her head, studying him. "And what did you say?"

Mark ran a hand over his jaw. "I told him it was a fucked-up idea."

She let out a small laugh. "Good answer."

"But..." Mark hesitated. "I told him I'd think about it."

That surprised her.

Claire leaned against the counter, arms still crossed, watching him carefully. "And you are thinking about it?"

Mark exhaled. "Yeah. I mean... I don't know. Part of me thinks it's ridiculous. But part of me thinks--what's the harm? If it would make him feel better, and it's just a wedding, and you're just going as a friend..."

Claire didn't answer right away.

Mark knew her well enough to see the gears turning in her head. She was considering it.

"Would it bother you?" she asked.

Mark hesitated.

"Yeah," he admitted. "It would."

She nodded slowly. "Then why would you even entertain it?"

Mark sighed. "I don't know. Maybe because I feel bad for him. Maybe because I know it would be a fun night for you. Maybe because I'm trying not to be the jealous husband who says no just because another guy asked."

Claire's lips pressed together, and she didn't respond.

Mark studied her. "Would you want to do it?"

She hesitated again.

"I don't know," she said finally. "I mean... I like John. He's a good guy. I do feel bad for him. And if it's just a wedding..."

Mark clenched his jaw. He knew that tone. She was leaning toward yes.

Claire picked up the knife again, idly slicing through a strawberry. "But I also get why it would make you uncomfortable."

Mark exhaled through his nose. "Yeah."

Silence stretched between them.

Claire glanced up, meeting his eyes. "You trust me, right?"

Mark looked at her. Really looked at her.

Did he trust her?

After all these years? Through the girls' trips and the flirtations and the quiet, unspoken suspicions?

Yeah.

He trusted her.

Mark sighed, shaking his head. "Yeah," he said. "I trust you."

Claire gave him a small, knowing smile. "Then what do you want me to do?"

Mark looked at her.

He genuinely wasn't sure how to answer.

--

The second Mark said it, a little thrill shot through Claire, sharp and undeniable.

John wanted her to go to the wedding with him.

She put down the knife and gripped the edge of the counter, keeping her face neutral, forcing herself to play it cool. Her mind raced ahead, filling in the details--her walking into the reception with John at her side, every woman in the room watching them.

John was that guy. The one every woman in town whispered about. The one who made them fidget in their seats whenever he walked into a room. The one whose presence electrified every dull neighborhood gathering, every PTA meeting, every night out at the local bar.

And now, suddenly, this.

She could hear her friends' voices in her head. Are you serious? Oh my God, Claire, how did this happen? You're actually going with him?

She thought back to their last girls' night, huddled around a table at their favorite wine bar, giggling over their second bottle.

"Did you see him at the grocery store the other day?" Sarah P. had said, fanning herself. "Gray workout shorts. Jesus. I had to walk down another aisle to compose myself."

Melissa laughed. "I swear he does it on purpose. Like, he knows exactly what he's doing."

"Of course he does," Claire had chimed in, sipping her wine. "He might be clueless about relationships, but he definitely knows how to make women stare."

Then Olivia, the one who always took things further, leaned in and said, "If we were single, how long do you think it would take him to get us into bed?"

The table had erupted into laughter, but the question had hung in the air, unspoken and undeniable.

She forced her expression into something neutral, casual. When she finally spoke, she made sure her voice was measured, even.

"And what did you say?"

Mark smirked. "Told him it was a fucked-up idea."

Claire let out a small, controlled laugh. "Good answer."

"But..." Mark hesitated. "I told him I'd think about it."

Claire's heart fluttered.

She kept her arms crossed, her face smooth, acting as if she were carefully considering the situation, like there were pros and cons to weigh, like she wasn't already imagining the dress she would wear.

"And you are thinking about it?"

Mark exhaled. "Yeah. I mean... I don't know. Part of me thinks it's ridiculous. But part of me thinks--what's the harm? If it would make him feel better, and it's just a wedding, and you're just going as a friend..."

Hold it together, Claire, she told herself. Play it cool. "Would it bother you?" she asked finally.

Mark hesitated.

"Yeah," he admitted. "It would."

She nodded slowly. "Then why would you even entertain it?"

Mark sighed. "I don't know. Maybe because I feel bad for him. Maybe because I know it would be a fun night for you. Maybe because I'm trying not to be the jealous husband who says no just because another guy asked... Would you want to do it?"

"I don't know," she said finally, tilting her head as if deep in thought. "I mean... I like John. He's a good guy. I do feel bad for him. And if it's just a wedding..."

She saw the flicker of something in Mark's eyes--a mix of surprise, a hint of anger, disappointment.

Shit. Too much.

She backtracked, softening her tone. "But I also get why it would make you uncomfortable."

Mark didn't say anything, just exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair.

Claire saw her opening and went for it. "But there wouldn't be anything for you to be uncomfortable about. We'd just be going as friends, and it would just be to help John out."

Mark didn't immediately respond.

"By the way," she added, keeping her tone light, "where is the wedding?"

Mark sighed. "Evidently, it's a big money affair. Ceremony at Riverside Church on the West Side, reception at the rooftop of the Peninsula Hotel."

Claire widened her eyes just enough to feign mild interest. "Well, that doesn't sound terrible."

Mark let out a dry laugh. "No, it doesn't. Not for you, at least."

She leaned against the counter, keeping her expression somewhere between amusement and reasonability. "Oh my God, Mark, you trust me, right?"

Mark sighed again, shaking his head as if this whole conversation was exhausting him. "Yeah," he said finally. "I trust you."

She forced herself to stay composed, to make it sound like she was still rational, still thinking it through.

"Then what do you want me to do?" she asked.

Mark met her eyes. His gaze was heavy, knowing. "You really want to go, don't you?"

Claire raised her eyebrows, playing the role of the reasonable, selfless wife. "It would be fun," she said. "And it would be helping John out."

Mark didn't answer immediately. His expression was unreadable.

Finally, he exhaled. "Let's think about it."

Claire nodded, acting as if she weren't already screaming with excitement inside.

"Okay," she said lightly.

But she knew.

She knew this was happening.

--

The drive was quiet, just the hum of the tires on the pavement and the soft rhythm of the turn signal as they slowed for a red light. Mark stared straight ahead, hands gripping the wheel, his face unreadable.

"So," he said finally, breaking the silence. "What do you think?"

Claire turned to look at him. "What do you think?" she asked, her voice careful, neutral.

Mark exhaled. "I think it's a terrible idea," he admitted. "But if you want to go, I'm okay with it."

Claire turned her gaze to the window, gripping the armrest as if she needed to steady herself. She had to be measured here, had to be rational. She couldn't just say yes--that would be too eager, too obvious.

"So it's my decision?" she asked.

"Yes of course," Mark said. "It's up to you."

She hesitated, making herself pause, as if she were deeply considering it. "But you would be okay with it if I said yes? You wouldn't be mad?"

Mark sighed. "I'm not gonna lie, this is a fucked-up situation. I'm not gonna love it, but if you want to go, fine."

She let another few seconds pass before speaking, forcing restraint, keeping her voice steady. "I think..." she said slowly, "I think I should do it."

She rushed to explain. "I mean, John is going through so much. This isn't a big deal. It's just a way to help him out. And it's just one day."

Mark didn't say anything.

Claire pressed on. "And... how often do you get a chance to go to a wedding like this in New York? The ceremony is at Riverside Church. I mean, that place is gorgeous. And the reception? A rooftop at the Peninsula Hotel? That's not exactly something you get to do every weekend."

Still, Mark was silent.

She kept going. "I mean, it's not like a backyard wedding with a tent and a buffet. This is going to be incredible."

Mark let out a noncommittal grunt. She wasn't sure if he was agreeing or just acknowledging that she was talking.

The conversation stalled. The sound of the road filled the SUV again.

A few minutes passed before Mark spoke again. His voice was quieter this time. Hesitant.

"Look," he said. "I know you're attracted to John."

Claire's stomach flipped. She tried to keep her expression neutral. "Mark--"

He cut her off. "Just listen. I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just stating a fact." He glanced at her briefly before looking back at the road. "You're attracted to John, right?"

She hesitated. "Mark, come on--"

"Seriously, answer me, "Are you attracted to John?"

She sighed. "Look Mark, you know John is a good looking guy. Of course he's attractive."

"That's not an answer," he said. "Are you are attracted to him?"

She let out a breath, shifting in her seat. "Mark, this is stupid. I'm not--"

He cut her off again, his voice calm but firm. "Claire, I'm not starting a fight. But if we're going to do this, we have to talk about it."

She was off balance now. She didn't know what to say.

He waited.

Finally, she swallowed and answered, her voice measured. "Yes, Mark. I am. Of course I am. Every woman in town is attracted to John."

And there it was. Out in the open.

The silence stretched. The air in the SUV felt thicker, heavier.

Mark nodded, as if he had expected it. "I know you're attracted to him," he said. "You lose your mind anytime you're around him."

She scoffed. "I do not."

Mark let out a small, knowing laugh. "Claire. Any time we run into him, within fifteen minutes, you two are off in some corner talking."

"That's not true."

"It is true," Mark said, still amused, but not unkindly. "And don't give me that Booster Club excuse. It's not about grant requests. You love talking to him. You're like a schoolgirl around him."

She rolled her eyes. "Mark, that's ridiculous."

He chuckled. "It's not ridiculous. I see it. And again, I'm not fighting here."

"Could have fooled me."

Another silence settled between them.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice lower, more serious. "I just needed you to know that I know that before you go."

Claire didn't know what to say to that.

She stared out the window, her heartbeat uneven. Finally, after a long pause, she spoke. "Okay," she said. "I won't go. This is really not a big deal, and it's not worth fighting about."

But Mark shook his head. "That's not what I'm saying."

She looked over at him. He was still focused on the road, his grip on the wheel relaxed, his expression unreadable.

"I just don't want you going into this thinking I'm blind," he said.

Claire pressed her lips together, unsure of what to say.

Mark continued. "So I guess what I'm saying is--I know you're attracted to John. I want you to know that I know that. But I trust you. So I'm OK with the fact that this will be exciting for you--like a little fantasy date with the guy you have a crush on."

Her stomach twisted. "Mark, this is--"

"No, Claire," he interrupted, his voice steady. "It's okay. Go to the wedding. Have your day with John. I've been thinking about it. It's okay with me. But I wanted you to know."

The weight of his words filled the car.

She felt exposed in a way she hadn't expected. She wasn't doing anything wrong, but somehow, sitting here, hearing him lay it all out like that, she felt... caught.

She exhaled. "Mark, I don't really know what to say to that."

"You don't have to say anything," he said simply.

She was quiet for a moment. Then, finally, she asked, "You're okay with this?"

He nodded. "Yes. I am." He paused. "But there's one condition."

She swallowed. "What?"

"No one in town can ever know you're going with John to this wedding. It would just be too weird. I couldn't take it."

Claire felt an immediate rush of agreement. "Oh my God, you are absolutely right! I can only imagine the gossip."

She lowered her voice, mimicking one of their gossipy friends. "'Did you hear Claire is going to New York with John? Alone? For a wedding?'"

Mark smirked.

She shook her head. "No way. We won't tell anyone. It'll just be between you, me, and John."

She waited a few minutes. "Do you want to text him to tell him?"

"No, it would be a little weird--me texting John to tell him you were going with him to the wedding. You should just text him."

"I guess..." she said, holding back her smile.

Telling Him Yes

Claire sat at her desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, staring blankly at the work emails on her screen.

She wasn't reading them.

Her heart was pounding.

Mark had gone into the office, the kids were at school, and for the first time in hours, she was completely alone. The house was still, filled only with the faint ticking of the clock in the kitchen and the occasional creak of the floorboards.

She felt ridiculous. It's just a text. Just a simple text.

And yet her hands were shaking.

She wasn't sure why. Or rather, she was sure why--she just wasn't ready to admit it to herself.

The idea of texting John had an energy to it, an undercurrent that made her breath feel shallow, made her pulse feel fast. She had spent the last fifteen minutes overthinking it, composing and deleting messages in her head, trying to make it sound breezy, effortless, like this was no big deal.

Finally, before she could talk herself out of it, she typed:

Hey, good news.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself.

Her phone vibrated almost instantly.

John: Is it what I think?

She swallowed, took a slow breath, and typed back:

Yes.

The response came back within seconds--

A string of heart emojis.

Her stomach flipped.

She stared at the little red hearts on her screen, feeling something warm spread through her chest. She shouldn't feel this way. It was just emojis. A dumb, playful reaction. But it made her heart race in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.

Her phone buzzed again.

John: Thank you thank you thank you thank you.

She exhaled, grinning despite herself.

Before she could reply, another message appeared.

John: And thank Mark too. I know this is weird.

She hesitated, then typed back:

Claire: lol It is a little.

Another buzz.

John: But he's cool with it?

She bit her lip. Claire: I wouldn't say cool.

A pause.

John: Everything OK?

She hesitated just for a second before answering. Claire: He said I could go, so yes, OK.

John: ????

Claire couldn't help but smile.

She took another breath, then added:

Claire: One condition.

John: ??

Claire: No one in town can know. We can't tell anyone!

A pause. Then--

John: Got it.

Another buzz.

John: Good thinking--people talk

Claire: Yes, too much

John: It's in the vault

Claire: lol I hope so

John: I'm getting us a car to go into NYC.

Her pulse skipped.

Claire: Ohhh fancy

John: I'll have it pick you up first and then come get me at my brother's house in Centerville--discreet!

Claire's breath hitched.

Claire: Sneaky--I love it!

Her fingers tingled as she typed the words.

She had no idea why she wrote that.

Or maybe she did.

Her phone buzzed again.

John: Thanks so much for doing this--and thank Mark.

Claire: My pleasure.

A few seconds later, his final text came through.

John: We'll see

She stared at the words, at the weight behind them.

Her heart was still pounding.

--

Mark watched Claire. She moved through the house with an lightness, her hips swaying just a little more, her voice carrying a melodic energy. She laughed more easily, touched him in passing more often--a hand on his shoulder, fingers brushing against his back as she reached for something.

She was glowing. And Mark knew why.

When she thought he wasn't looking, she'd pick up her phone, a small smile playing on her lips. Maybe she was texting John, maybe she wasn't. But the possibility was enough to send a jolt through Mark's chest.

At dinner, she poured herself a second glass of wine--something she only did when she was in an especially good mood. The kids asked to be excused and went to do homework. Claire sat across the table sipping her wine.

"So I had an idea," she said.

"What's that?"

"Well... I need something to wear to the wedding."

That got Mark's attention. He didn't know why, but his heart started bearing faster.

She continued, "And I thought, maybe we could make a night out of it. We could go to the mall, get some dinner and drinks, then do some shopping."

"You want me to shop with you?"

"I thought it might be fun."

"Just to be clear: you want to make a date night out of me helping you shop for something to wear on date?"

Claire laughed. "It's not a date."

Mark said, "It's still kind of weird."

She said, "The whole thing is kind of weird."

It was Mark's turn to laugh. "You're right about that. Fine, maybe it will be fun."

--

Lying in bed, Mark stared at the ceiling, his thoughts tangled.

This whole thing was a bad idea.

He had told himself that a dozen times. And yet...

Every time he thought about it--about Claire shopping for something to wear for John, about her excitement, about the way she lit up at just the idea of going--he felt something twist inside him.

He was uneasy. Deeply uneasy.

But there was something else.

Something he hadn't expected.

Something about watching Claire thinking about what she would wear, knowing she was picking out a dress for John, not for him... it bothered him. But it also...

Mark exhaled, rubbing his eyes.

No. He wasn't going there.

And yet, his pulse was steady, heavy, as the image of Claire slipping into a dress in some dressing room tomorrow night played out in his mind.

--

A Different Kind of Date Night

They started with drinks. It was a bar at a restaurant in the mall, but for the night it was serving the purpose.

Mark and Claire sat across from each other in a booth, drinks in front of them.

Claire had a goal. She wanted this to be fun. For Mark. The truth was, she was getting more and more excited about the wedding. She knew Mark was still doubtful. The best way to make sure everything went smoothly was to make him a part of it. Make sure he felt included, not shut out. Also, there was something else. That day, she had picked up a new kind of energy between them. A curiosity. An interest.

She caught him looking at her throughout the day. More than usual. Long enough that she noticed.

He had hugged her in the kitchen, out of nowhere. That never happened.

That afternoon, he had complimented her jeans. Said she looked good in them. That never happened either.

It got her thinking.

And now, sitting here, sipping a cocktail with bourbon and orange zest, she realized that this night had a completely different energy than their usual "date nights."

Mark felt it too.

It was in the way they were both a little nervous, how the conversation had an edge of playfulness and tension that had been missing for years.

It felt... real.

Like an actual date.

Mark swirled his drink in his hand, studying her. "So," he said casually, "what are you going to wear?"

Claire took a sip of her drink. "I don't know," she said. "We'll have to see what we find."

She smiled, then hesitated.

"But... I have been thinking," she said slowly.

Mark raised an eyebrow. "About what?"

She hesitated again, swirling the ice in her glass. "I don't know... it might sound weird."

"Tell me."

Claire exhaled, choosing her words carefully. "I really want to wow all John's college friends."

Mark blinked. "Wow them?"

"Yeah," she said, laughing lightly. "Especially the guy getting married. I keep thinking about walking into that wedding in some killer dress and just blowing them all away. You know, making John look good."

Mark tilted his head, a slow smirk playing at the corner of his lips. "Wait. So you're telling me you want to look so good that you make the random college friends of some other guy jealous of him?"

Claire shrugged, taking another sip. "Yeah... that's about right."

Mark let out a dry laugh. He shook his head, amused. "This is getting so weird."

They laughed together, and the tension eased, but something was still humming beneath the surface.

Claire leaned in slightly, her eyes dancing. "You know what I mean though, right?"

Mark nodded, watching her. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

He took a sip of his drink, then added, "And you'll do it too."

Claire raised an eyebrow.

Mark smirked. "You, all dressed up on John's arm, walking into that wedding... They'll all be drooling."

Claire's smile widened, a playful spark in her eyes. "I never said I'd be on John's arm."

Mark waved a hand. "Figure of speech."

Claire took another sip, then glanced at him over her glass, her eyes mischievous.

"Well," she said, letting her voice dip just slightly, "I guess there are worse places to be."

Mark exhaled, his smirk faltering just a little.

--

As they stepped out of the restaurant, Claire walked a little ahead of Mark, a subtle sway in her hips. The mall was lively, filled with the hum of conversation, the distant scent of perfume, leather, and freshly brewed coffee from the café downstairs.

But Claire wasn't thinking about any of that.

She was thinking about Mark.

She had caught it--the way he reacted to her little joke at the bar. The way his cheeks flushed, how he glanced away too quickly, smiling uncomfortably.

And then, for just a moment, he laughed.

A small, nervous laugh.

Claire felt a pulse of excitement rush through her.

He didn't hate this, not entirely. He might be conflicted, even nervous, but he was intrigued.

And that intrigued her.

As for Mark, his thoughts were tangled. Claire's comment back at the bar had rattled him. Well, I guess there are worse places to be.

It was playful, yes, but it was also something else.

She was imagining it. Imagining herself on John's arm, imagining the way people would look at them, and she liked the thought.

The idea of Claire walking into that wedding, stunning, radiant, all eyes on her, all eyes on them--on her and John--it made something churn deep in his stomach.

They stepped into Nordstrom's, greeted immediately by a tall, stylish woman.

"Can I help you find anything?" she asked, giving Claire an approving once-over.

Claire, perhaps emboldened by her two cocktails, smiled and said, "Yes. I'm going to a ritzy wedding, and I need something that will dazzle the room when I walk in."

The saleswoman laughed. "We can definitely do that."

Mark watched as Claire's excitement grew.

"Just to give me something to work from," the woman continued, "since it's a ritzy wedding, I assume you're looking for something elegant. But are we thinking timeless, conservative elegance? Or younger, more flashy elegance?"

Mark almost answered for her. Claire always opted for timeless elegance--classic dresses, nothing too daring.

"Flashy elegance," she said immediately. "I want to turn heads."

Mark felt his stomach tighten.

The saleswoman grinned. "I like it. Let me show you some things."

She led them deeper into the store, guiding Claire toward a rack of gowns. Mark followed a few steps behind, half-listening as the saleswoman sorted through dresses.

"I have one dress here that is absolutely beautiful. It's a head-turner, but..." she hesitated, looking at Claire with a knowing smile, "it has a plunging neckline. It's pretty bold."

Claire's eyes gleamed. "Show me."

Mark swallowed hard.

A few minutes later, Mark sat in one of the plush chairs outside the dressing rooms, scrolling absently through his phone, when the curtain pulled back.

He looked up.

And froze.

Claire stepped out in a stunning black dress, the fabric hugging her curves perfectly. But the neckline--Jesus.

The deep plunge exposed more cleavage than Mark had ever seen her showr. The delicate fabric draped over her shoulders, cinching at the waist, flowing down her hips.

Mark sat up straighter, his mouth suddenly dry.

Claire turned toward the mirror, smoothing the fabric over her hips, assessing herself.

"What do you think?" she asked.

Mark exhaled, his pulse kicking up a notch. "You look... incredible."

Claire caught his hesitation and smirked. "But?"

He cleared his throat. "I don't know."

She tilted her head, amused. "What don't you know?"

He gestured vaguely. "It's... kind of revealing."

Claire met his gaze in the mirror, smiling knowingly. "Yes, you're right. This isn't something I would normally wear." She ran a hand over the fabric, adjusting the neckline slightly. "But this would turn some heads, wouldn't it?"

Mark swallowed. "Yeah. Yeah, it sure would."

She tilted her head, still studying her reflection. "I bet John's college friends won't be able to take their eyes off me."

Mark's jaw tightened.

She was teasing him.

But as she said it, a question popped into his head--Was she imagining everyone at the wedding looking at her in this dress... or was she imagining John?

The next dress was even more daring--a sleek, blood-red gown with a thigh-high slit and an open back.

Claire stepped out, hands on her hips, one leg slightly extended.

Mark's breath caught in his throat.

Claire turned, watching his reaction. "What about this one?"

Mark exhaled slowly. "You're really going for flashy elegance, huh?"

She grinned. "That was the plan."

She turned toward the mirror again, running her hands down her sides. "You know what's funny?" she mused.

Mark raised an eyebrow. "What?"

She glanced at him through the mirror. "The guy getting married--he and John were super competitive in college. Always trying to one-up each other."

Mark smirked. "Yeah? And now?"

Claire's eyes gleamed mischievously. "Now? John's about to win.

"Imagine it. The groom is standing at the altar, chatting with his groomsmen. He looks out and sees John walking up the aisle. And clinging to his arm is this gorgeous woman." She struck a sultry pose. "We make a beautiful couple."

"You're a couple now?"

She knew she was testing it now. "For that day, yes. To all those people at the wedding, yes."

She continued: "Does that bother you?"

"Yeah, kind of."

"It's just for the day, Mark."

"I know."

"And you have to admit, we will look good together."

Mark didn't say anything.

She continued, "John, with his broad shoulders in a sharp suit, and me on his arm in this." She gave a little spin. "We'll be the hottest couple in the place."

Mark shook his head. "This is getting so weird."

She pushed it. "Of course, I'll have to play it up a little to make them think we're a couple."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, yes John and I are just going as friends, but if we really want to make John look good, his friends will have to think we're a real couple."

"I don't like the sound of this," Mark said.

"It's not a big deal. But I might have to pretend to be his girlfriend."

"What does that mean,"

Claire shrugged. "Well, I mean... I can't just show up and not act the part. That would be weird. If I'm going to be on his arm, I have to sell it."

Mark felt something shift in his chest--part curiosity, part unease. "Okay," he said slowly, "so... what does that look like?"

Claire turned back toward the mirror, adjusting the thin straps on her shoulders, watching his reflection carefully as she spoke.

Claire tilted her head. "We'll probably have to make up some backstory about how we met. That will be fun."

"And..." Mark said.

"And when we're together I'll have to laugh at his jokes. You know, touch his arm when he says something funny." She did a small demonstration, brushing her fingers along the air, as if tracing the outline of John's bicep.

Mark exhaled through his nose.

"I should probably compliment him a lot, too," Claire continued, biting her lip in mock consideration. "Tell people how wonderful he is. How lucky I am."

Mark scoffed. "Jesus."

Claire grinned. "Oh, come on. You asked."

Mark shook his head. "So what else?"

Claire turned fully toward him now, her smile playful but her eyes dancing with something deeper.

"Well," she said, "I'll have to lean in close when we talk. Whisper things in his ear."

Mark's fingers curled slightly on his lap.

"And," Claire went on, holding his gaze, "I should touch him a lot--you know, casually."

She traced her fingers lightly down her own arm.

Mark was quiet.

Claire smiled. "And then there's dancing, of course."

Mark cleared his throat. "Dancing."

She nodded. "Slow dancing. I mean, what kind of date doesn't dance with her boyfriend?"

Mark stared at her. "So let me get this straight."

Claire raised an eyebrow, amused.

Mark exhaled. "You're planning to touch him, compliment him, whisper in his ear, hold onto him, and then slow dance with him?"

Claire shrugged, suppressing a smile. "If we're pretending to be a couple, yes. That's what couples do, Mark."

Mark leaned back in his chair, rubbing his jaw.

Jesus Christ.

He could see it now--Claire, in that dress, attached to John's arm, her hand on his chest, whispering in his ear, swaying with him on the dance floor.

Claire grinned. "I told you, I want John to win."

"This wasn't part of the deal, you pretending to be his girlfriend."

"We talked about helping John feel better by letting everyone think he had a new girlfriend."

"No we talked about letting everyone think he had a date to the wedding."

"Same thing," she said.

"It's really not."

They noticed the saleswoman standing by the dressing room, holding the next dress, watching them.

She smiled and gave him a quick kiss. "Let's talk about this later. I've got another dress to try on."

--

Claire stepped out of the dressing room in the emerald gown, smoothing the fabric over her hips. The dress clung to her body like it had been made for her, shimmering under the store's soft lighting.

Mark looked up.

And froze.

His breath caught in his throat.

The dress was stunning. The deep green color made her skin glow, her curves accentuated in ways that sent a slow, creeping heat up the back of his neck. The slit up the leg, the way the fabric draped over her body--it was sexy as hell, but not cheap. It was dangerous in its sophistication.

Mark exhaled. "Jesus."

Claire caught his reflection in the mirror, the way his eyes flickered over her body before he forced himself to sit back.

She hesitated.

What she was about to say--what had just formed in her mind--was bold.

Maybe too bold.

But something about the way Mark had been acting tonight, the way he had been watching her all day, made her want to test him.

So, heart fluttering slightly, she met his eyes in the mirror, let a slow smile creep across her lips, and asked,

"Do you think he'll like it?"

The moment the words left her mouth, the air between them thickened.

Mark's stomach twisted.

His jaw tensed, fingers curling slightly on his lap.

He looked at her through the mirror, trying to process what had just happened.

She wasn't asking if he liked it.

She wasn't even pretending to ask about how it would look in general.

She was asking about John.

Claire stood there, her face still holding the hint of a smile, but her pulse quickened. She had said it playfully, teasingly, but inside, she was watching him, waiting for his reaction, curious about how far this could go.

Mark exhaled through his nose. "Are we doing this now?"

Claire turned toward him, shrugging. "I'm just asking."

Mark shook his head, running a hand down his jaw. "Jesus, Claire."

She laughed. "What? It's a fair question."

Mark leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. "You really want me to answer that?"

Claire's smile widened. "Yes. I do."

Mark inhaled deeply, forcing himself to stay composed. He should shut this down. He should roll his eyes and tell her she was being ridiculous.

But the truth was--

Yes.

Yes, John would love it.

Yes, John would stare.

Yes, John would probably have to stop himself from imagining taking Claire upstairs to his hotel room the second he saw her in it.

Mark's stomach tightened.

"You already know the answer," he said finally.

Claire's eyes gleamed. "I want to hear you say it."

Mark exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Yes, Claire. He'll like it. He'll love it."

Claire turned back toward the mirror, adjusting the strap of the dress as if she wasn't enjoying this exchange far too much.

"Good," she said lightly. "That's the idea."

Mark's fingers curled tighter.

Claire smoothed her hands over her waist, watching herself. "You know, I want it to be one of those moments," she continued, her tone playful.

Mark exhaled, wary. "... What kind of moment?"

Claire turned, her expression mischievous. "You know, when the guy sees the girl for the first time, and for just a second, he forgets how to speak."

Mark shook his head, but he couldn't help the smirk forming at the corner of his lips. "Christ."

Claire grinned. "And then, when we walk in together, all his friends will be looking at him like--Damn, John. Where did you find her?"

Mark let out a dry laugh, but his chest felt tight.

Claire turned back toward the mirror, tilting her head. "So," she said, watching him carefully, "should I get it?"

Mark forced a smirk, trying to hide whatever was unraveling inside of him.

"You want me to decide?"

She shrugged. "You're the one who has to watch me walk out the door in it."

Mark exhaled, shaking his head. "Then no, don't get it."

Claire laughed.

He rolled his eyes. "Get the damn dress, Claire."

She grinned. "I thought so."

--

Things Start to Change

They didn't talk about it.

Not in the car.

Not when they got home, paid the babysitter, and went through the motions of getting ready for bed.

Claire hung the emerald dress carefully in her closet, her fingers lingering on the fabric as she zipped up the garment bag. Mark stood in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, not saying a word.

But the air between them was alive.

It was charged, crackling, thick with something unspoken.

They both felt it.

Neither of them dared to acknowledge it.

Not with words, at least.

But the second they got into bed, the second the lights were off and their bodies found each other in the dark--everything exploded.

Mark had barely pulled the sheets over them before he attacked her.

There was nothing slow, nothing tentative about it.

It was raw. Hungry. Desperate.

Mark kissed her hard, his hands gripping her body like he needed to possess her, like he was trying to lay claim to something that had already begun to slip through his fingers.

Claire responded instantly, wrapping her legs around him, pulling him closer, feeding off his intensity--no, feeding it, matching it, challenging it.

And it was amazing.

It was like their bodies had rediscovered something long lost, something primal and uninhibited.

There was no routine, no predictability.

It was new.

It was different.

And it was, without question, the most earth-shattering sex they had ever had.

--

Claire lay on her back, her chest rising and falling, her body still buzzing from what had just happened.

She turned her head slightly, glancing at Mark in the dim light.

He was lying beside her, staring at the ceiling, his expression unreadable.

They were both silent.

Neither of them knew what to say.

Claire bit her lip, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling.

That just happened.

And she knew why.

Mark was turned on by this whole thing.

Even though he was jealous. Even though he was uneasy about it.

That question.

The one she had dared to ask in the dressing room.

"Do you think he'll like it?"

She felt the heat rise in her again just thinking about it.

She had watched his face in the mirror when she said it--how his body tensed, how his hands curled into fists. She had pushed him, and the way he had responded, the way he had practically lost control tonight, told her everything she needed to know.

He was conflicted.

But he was also excited.

And the truth was, so was she.

Because she had been imagining herself at the wedding. She had let herself picture it--the way John would look at her when he first saw her in that dress, the way his friends would stare.

And then, later...

After the wedding.

John's hotel room.

That fantasy had sent her into orbit tonight.

She closed her eyes, exhaling softly.

This was dangerous.

And intoxicating.

Beside her, Mark was still wide awake.

His mind was spinning.

"She actually said it."

"She actually said she was dressing up for John."

"She made me say that John would like it."

He couldn't get it straight in his head.

Did this mean she was planning to do something with John?

Was this a game to her? A test?

Or was she just teasing him--just getting a thrill out of pushing his buttons?

Jesus Christ.

He was terrified.

He was jealous.

And yet...

--

The next morning, Claire sat at the kitchen counter, her coffee half-forgotten as she scrolled absently through her phone. The events of last night still lingered in her mind--how intense it had been, how different it had felt. How Mark had felt.

And then, her phone buzzed.

John: Hey

A small rush of excitement pulsed through her.

Claire: Hey you

John: Everything good for Saturday?

She smiled, her fingers typing quickly.

Claire: All good

John: Great. Car will pick you up at noon

Claire: Can't wait

The words left her fingers before she even thought about them. And then--

John: Me too.

Her stomach flipped.

A pause.

Then--

John: I got a new suit. Looks damn good.

Claire smirked.

Claire: I got a new dress too

John: How's it look?

She hesitated.

Then, with a playful confidence she didn't fully understand, she typed:

Claire: Fucking amazing.

John: lol ????

She bit her lip.

Claire: lol

Another pause.

Then--

John: I'm going out to buy a new tie

Claire: Good for you

John: It should match your dress

Her pulse quickened slightly.

Claire: Would be good

And then--

John: Send a pic so I can match it

She swallowed.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

This was fine. Totally normal.

She stood, walking into the bedroom where the dress hung on the back of the door. She snapped a quick picture and sent it.

John: That's good, but I just can't seem to get the full picture

She read it again. And again.

A warm, electric thrill shot through her body.

This was a shift.

Until now, John had kept it exactly as he had presented it to Mark--one friend helping another friend out.

This?

This was different.

She could feel it.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she watched the three little dots appear, then--

John: Afraid I might mess up tie purchase

John: Need to see dress on

Claire inhaled sharply.

Her mind raced.

She knew what she should do. She should laugh it off, send an "lol," and tell him he'd see the dress on Saturday.

But she didn't.

Instead, before she could overthink it, she picked up the dress and walked into the bathroom.

Her hands were shaking as she slipped it on, smoothing the fabric over her hips, adjusting the straps.

She stepped into the hallway, listening.

Mark had left for work. The house was empty.

Still, her pulse raced as she walked back into the bedroom, standing in front of the full-length mirror.

She posed.

Not just a casual, standing-there shot. A real pose. One leg slightly extended, hip angled just enough, head tilted. Her expression--sultry, knowing.

Her heart hammered.

She clicked the picture before she could second-guess herself.

And then--before she backed out--she sent it.

The moment it was gone, a rush of adrenaline flooded through her.

Her breath came faster. Her fingers tingled.

Her phone buzzed seconds later.

John: Holy shit

She let out a breath, the heat in her stomach spreading.

Claire: You like?

A pause.

John: Holy shit

She laughed to herself.

Claire: lol you said that

John: I can't believe it. That dress is so fucking hot

Claire hesitated.

She knew what she wanted to say.

And she knew it was crossing a line.

Her fingers moved fast, almost acting on their own.

She hit send before she could stop herself.

Claire: Just the dress?

She froze.

Her body went still, eyes locked on the screen, waiting.

Her phone buzzed again, the response coming almost instantly.

John: I was being appropriate. You are fucking stunning.

A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips.

Claire: lol

John: Not lol.

Her stomach flipped again.

She exhaled, fingers trembling slightly.

Claire: lol

John: I cannot wait til Saturday.

Claire hesitated.

This had gone far enough for now.

She needed to shut this down.

Claire: Me too. Gotta go

John: See ya

Claire: Bye

She placed her phone down on the dresser, staring at her reflection.

Countdown to the Wedding

Something had shifted between them.

Neither one of them spoke about the wedding, about the shopping trip, or about what had happened afterward.

But it was there.

In the way Mark kissed her goodbye in the mornings, lingering a little longer, his hand slipping down to squeeze her waist before pulling away.

In the way Claire moved through the house, lighter on her feet, radiant. She caught Mark watching her more often, his eyes tracing her when he thought she wasn't paying attention.

In the way his hands found her waist when he walked past her in the kitchen, his fingers sliding over her hip before moving on.

It was there in the random touches--Mark reaching for her hand while they sat on the couch watching TV, Claire wrapping her arms around him from behind as he stood at the counter making coffee.

It was there in the small looks--a knowing glance over dinner, a shared smirk across the room, the subtle heat in their gazes that neither of them acknowledged.

And at night...

At night, it was different.

It was almost an unspoken rule between them that they had sex once per week, usually on Friday nights. It had been that way for years--a comfortable, predictable rhythm.

But over the next four nights, they had sex on three of them.

The only night they didn't was when Claire fell asleep with their daughter, who had been feeling sick.

And the nights they did?

It wasn't like their usual, routine sex.

Mark would pull her into him in the dark, his hands gripping her body, his lips pressing against her shoulder before rolling her beneath him.

Claire responded with equal intensity, wrapping her legs around him, pulling him deeper, her fingers raking down his back.

There was something else in it now.

Something unspoken.

--

Mark was in his home office, half-listening to a podcast while flipping through emails, when Claire appeared in the doorway.

She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, her expression casual.

"Hey," she said.

Mark glanced up. "Hey."

She tilted her head. "You got a second?"

He muted his call. "What's up?"

"I've got the schedule for tomorrow all worked out," she said, stepping into the room.

Mark leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms. "Oh yeah?"

Claire nodded. "Both kids have games, but they both have rides."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "OK."

"And I set up sleepovers for both of them later."

Mark stilled.

Both of them?"

Claire nodded. "Yep."

So... I'll have the house to myself all night?"

She shrugged, keeping her tone light. "Figured that way you could relax."

Mark let out a dry chuckle. "Relax, huh?"

Claire smirked. "Yes."

He studied her for a moment, tapping a pen absently against his desk. "You really thought of everything, didn't you?"

She gave him a small, knowing smile.

Mark's chest tightened.

The house. Empty. All night.

His mind immediately went somewhere it shouldn't.

Claire, coming home after the wedding.

After a night of drinking.

After a night with John.

And walking into a quiet, empty house.

His pulse kicked up a notch.

Claire lingered for a second longer, then turned toward the door. "Alright," she said, tossing him a quick glance over her shoulder. "Just wanted to let you know."

Mark exhaled, watching her go.

--

The energy between them was the same as it had been all week--charged.

The weight of everything unspoken hung between them as Mark kissed her, his hands moving over her body with the same urgency he'd had every night since their shopping trip.

But then Claire pulled back, searching his eyes in the dim light.

"Will it be hard waiting here tomorrow?" she asked.

Mark exhaled, his fingers still resting on her waist. "Yeah," he admitted. "I think it will be."

Claire tilted her head, watching him carefully. "I know."

She kissed him. "Please don't worry. It's all going to be fine. I love you."

"I love you too," Mark said, kissing her back.

The sex was even better than before.

--

The Morning of the Wedding

The house was busy with the usual Saturday chaos--kids scrambling to get their sports gear, last-minute reminders about water bottles and cleats, parents arriving to shuttle them to their games.

Mark stood by the driveway, making small talk with the dad picking up their son for baseball.

He forced himself to nod, to chuckle at some offhand comment about little league, but his mind was elsewhere.

What if he knew?

What if this guy--this perfectly normal suburban dad standing in front of him--knew that in a couple of hours, Claire was going to be spending the entire day with John?

What if anyone knew?

The thought made Mark's stomach clench.

He wanted to stop this. Even now. Wanted to say Forget it, Claire. You're not going.

But he knew it was too late. She had made up her mind. And Mark had let it happen.

--

Claire was the opposite.

She was buzzing.

Even though she tried to play it cool, Mark could feel the excitement radiating off of her. She was practically glowing. And it made his stomach twist.

After the last kid was gone, Claire wasted no time. As soon as the front door closed, she ran upstairs, stripping off her t-shirt before she even reached the bathroom. She stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over her, her body alive with energy.

This was finally happening.

She had been counting down the minutes all morning, biting her lip whenever she felt the anticipation threaten to show on her face. And now, now she could let herself feel it. She closed her eyes, lathering her body, running the soapy water over her curves, her pulse beating steadily.

It was just a wedding.

She kept telling herself that.

Just a fun, innocent day.

And yet...

There was nothing innocent about the way her stomach flipped thinking about seeing John in his new suit. About the moment he would lay eyes on her in this dress.

She felt wicked. And she liked it.

She stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel, her skin still tingling.

As she moved into the bedroom, she hesitated at her dresser, her fingers hovering over the handle. She opened it slowly, looking inside. There were her regular underwear--simple, elegant, functional. And then, tucked away in a side compartment, was the lingerie Mark had bought her for Valentine's Day two years ago.

She hadn't worn them in ages.

She bit her lip.

Do I dare?

Her heart pounded.

It wasn't for John.

It wasn't.

It was just... for her.

To feel sexy. To feel confident.

That's all, she told herself. That's all it is.

She reached for it.

And put it on.

--

Mark had been outside, cleaning up the yard, trying to distract himself.

It wasn't working.

Every time he stopped moving, his thoughts swarmed back. What is she thinking about right now? What is John thinking about right now?

Then he heard Claire call him from upstairs. He wiped his hands on his sweatshirt, took a steadying breath, and headed up.

And when he stepped into the bedroom, he froze.

Claire stood in front of the full-length mirror, adjusting her earring, and Mark's breath caught in his throat.

The dress.

It was even more stunning now than it had been in the store.

The emerald green fabric hugged her body like a second skin, the slit up her leg revealing just enough to make Mark's pulse spike.

Her heels made her legs look impossibly long.

Her makeup was perfect. Lips painted, eyes dark and striking, cheekbones accentuated just enough to make her look like a dream.

Mark swallowed hard.

He walked toward her, reaching instinctively for a kiss, but she stopped him with a small shake of her head, pressing a finger to her lips.

"My makeup," she said, tapping her lipstick lightly.

Mark exhaled sharply, stepping back, still dazed.

"How do I look?" she asked, turning to him fully now.

Mark let out a slow breath.

"You look... amazing."

Claire's lips curled, watching his face carefully.

She tilted her head, her eyes playful, mischievous.

"Good enough to win?" she teased.

Mark's stomach twisted. "Good enough to win," he said finally.

Her smile deepened.

"There's one more thing I have to do, but I wanted to make sure you're OK with it."

"What?" he said.

She lifted her hand and pulled off her wedding ring.

"If I'm going to pretend to be John's girlfriend I can't be wearing this."

"Oh my God, Claire," Mark said. "That's too much. This is too much."

She looked disappointed. "I'll wear it if you want me to. But it's not a big deal. It's just to pretend we're dating. We're going to tell people we met on a flight."

"Wait a minute, you've been talking to John? You already worked all this out?"

"Of course I texted him, Mark. You told me to. We had to make plans."

Mark's stomach dropped

A car horn honked outside. Her ride was here.

Claire put the ring on the bureau. She reached for his hand, squeezing it gently.

"Don't worry, honey," she said softly. "Everything is going to be fine."

She leaned in, pressing a careful peck against his cheek.

"I love you," she added.

And then she was walking away, moving down the stairs, toward the front door.

Mark followed slowly, stopping at the entrance as she stepped outside.

He watched her walk down the walkway, her hips swaying, the slit in her dress revealing smooth, bare leg with every step.

Her heels tapped against the stone.

She reached the car, opened the door, and slid inside, her legs folding gracefully into the back seat.

Mark's chest felt tight.

She looked so sexy pulling her legs into the car that he almost couldn't take it.

She closed the door.

And the car pulled away.

Mark stood there, watching, his hands at his sides, his stomach twisting.

What the hell just happened?

Mark's Day - The Spiral

Mark knew he couldn't stay home. If he stayed, the walls would close in on him. He'd drive himself crazy--waiting, wondering, imagining.

So, he left.

The game was already in full swing when Mark arrived. He greeted the other parents, exchanging casual nods and small talk, though he wasn't really there.

He watched his son pitch, cheered at the right moments, but his mind kept drifting.

Claire and John in the back of the car.

She's laughing at something John said, her hand falling lightly on his arm.

Mark clenched his jaw, shifting in his seat.

He tried to shake the image, refocusing on the game. His son struck a kid out, and Mark clapped, forcing himself to engage.

When the baseball game ended, he decided he still couldn't go home. He drove straight to his daughter's soccer game instead.

The field was filled with noise--the cheers of parents, the sound of cleats tearing through the grass, the sharp whistle of the ref.

Mark stood on the sidelines, hands in his pockets, chatting with the dad who was hosting his daughter for the sleepover. He was having a conversation. But in his head--

John introducing Claire to his friends.

"This is Claire, my girlfriend."

John's hand--possessively--resting on the small of Claire's back.

Mark's stomach twisted.

He barely heard the dad beside him comment about the score.

The soccer game ended.

Mark walked his daughter to the family hosting her. She hugged him quickly before running off with her friend.

He exhaled.

It was time to go.

As he got into the car, his phone buzzed.

Claire.

A picture.

The ceremony. A stunning gothic church, high-arched ceilings, light streaming through stained glass. The pews filled with well-dressed guests.

Mark stared at it for a long moment.

His thumbs hovered over the screen before he finally typed:

Mark: Looks great. Have fun.

He sat there.

Waiting.

No reply.

He sighed, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat, and pulled out of the parking lot.

--

He still couldn't go home.

Instead, he drove to a bar near the soccer field, slid onto a stool, and ordered a beer.

It was quiet, a few other guys watching a football game on the TVs. He took a sip, exhaled.

His phone buzzed. Another picture.

The rooftop deck of the hotel. The party spread out, elaborate decorations, St. Patrick's Cathedral looming in the background.

Mark stared at it, his stomach tightening.

Mark: How's it going?

A quick reply.

Claire: So much fun.

He hesitated, then typed:

Mark: Winning?

He stared at his phone.

Nothing.

No reply.

He exhaled, his chest tightening.

He paid his tab and left.

--

As he walked into the kitchen, his phone buzzed again.

A picture, of Claire. She's standing in front of an outside bar, the skyline of the city behind her. She looks radiant, her body stunning in the tight dress, a broad smile on her face.

Another message. "Thanks for lending me Claire for the day. She's the best- J"

She'd given John her phone. To take a picture of her. And text Mark. His heart sank.

He didn't reply.

--

Mark heated up some leftovers. Ate them standing up in the kitchen.

Took a shower.

Sat on the couch and put on the baseball game.

His mind raced.

Claire and John on the dancefloor. His hands on her waist. Her body swaying beneath him.

Mark changed the channel. A basketball game. He barely watched it.

Claire and John at a small table, nestled close. John leaning in. Claire letting him. A kiss.

Mark changed the channel again.

Seinfeld reruns.

He stared blankly at the screen.

--

Mark looked up at the clock.

12:30 AM.

His heart thudded.

Where the hell was she?

He grabbed his phone, opened their text thread, and typed:

Mark: You OK? ETA?

He waited.

Nothing.

The silence was deafening.

He sat on the bed, gripping his phone, staring at the screen.

--

1am. The images were racing now. Faster. More vivid.

An elevator. A hotel hallway. A door unlocking.

Mark closed his eyes, rubbing his face, trying to push it all away. His breathing was uneven.

He had made a mistake. He couldn't believe he had agreed to this.

What the hell was he thinking?

--

1:30am. He stared at the screen.

No reply. No update.

He knew something was wrong now. She should be on her way home. She should have texted him back.

He paced the room, running a hand through his hair. He didn't know if he was more angry or terrified.

--

2am. Seriously, what the hell could she be doing? What was keeping her from answering?

He stared at their last messages, rereading them, trying to find something that explained why she was still gone. His chest felt tight.

--

2:30am. She wasn't coming home after the wedding. She wasn't leaving the party at a reasonable time.

She was somewhere else.

With him.

Mark sat heavily on the bed, his stomach twisting into knots.

He had let this happen. He had let her go.

And now--they were both going to have to live with it.

--

Mark had finally drifted into a restless sleep when he heard it. The front door.

His eyes snapped open. He turned, looking at the clock.

4:00 AM.

His heart slammed against his ribs. He heard soft footsteps. His pulse roared in his ears.

He didn't move. He just listened.

Waiting.

Dreading.

Trying to prepare himself for whatever the hell was coming next.

--

The bedroom was dark, lit only by the faint blue glow of the streetlight seeping through the window. Mark lay still beneath the sheets, his body tense, breath shallow, heart hammering in his chest.

He saw her.

Claire stood in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light.

She didn't say anything.

She just stood there.

Her hair was a mess--once carefully curled, now undone and falling around her shoulders in tangled waves. Her heels dangled from her fingers, swinging limply by the straps.

Her posture was off. She stood, unsteadily.

She took a step into the room, barefoot, the sound of her feet on the hardwood floor soft and hesitant.

As she moved further into the light, Mark's breath caught.

Tears.

There were tears in her eyes.

Her makeup was smudged, mascara dusting the skin beneath her eyes, lips faded from the careful gloss she'd applied hours earlier.

The emerald green dress--the one that had made her look so impossibly radiant--was now wrinkled, rumpled, the shoulder strap slipping slightly down her arm.

She looked at him.

And he looked at her.

The silence between them felt too heavy to breathe through.

Mark pushed himself up slightly.

He held up his hands, a questioning gesture.

His heart was in his throat.

Claire didn't speak.

She just looked into his eyes.

And nodded.

--

Mark closed his eyes, the weight of everything crashing down all at once.

She moved toward the bed.

The mattress dipped under her as she climbed in beside him, still not saying a word. The scent of alcohol drifted into his nose--champagne, whiskey, something sweet on her breath. She climbed up the bed. She put one leg over him, straddling him. She put one hand on either side of his head, lowered her face to his.

She gazed down at him, her expression unreadable, her face flushed, her body still trembling with some aftershock--emotional or otherwise.

"Claire--"

She lifted her hand and gently placed her fingers over his lips.

Quiet.

Just for a moment.

Her eyes shimmered, fixed on his.

And then--

She leaned in and kissed him. It was a wet kiss. Sloppy. She tasted like booze, cigarettes, like someone else; not like his wife.

She pushed herself back until she was sitting up. She wound her arms behind her, wiggled herself out of the way and reached inside his shorts. He was hard. She stoked him behind her back, one time, two, three, four.

She lifted herself up, pushed her one-gorgeous dress aside. With one hand she pulled aside the panties she had been so excited to put on hours before. She wrapped the fingers of her other hand around him, and guided him inside.

She was wet. So wet. He slid in easily.

She grinded on his dick, shifting her hips side to side and back and forth until she heard him gasping.

She dropped down onto his chest. She kissed him.

Mark was stunned. He laid there as she fucked him. She grabbed his head and pulled it into her breasts. She reached over, pulled her dress open and popped her tits out of her bra. She grinded and bounced and squeezed him into her chest.

At last he was overcome. He nuzzled her breasts. He kissed her nipples. He clutched her waist.

But she did the work. She bounced on him, gaining momentum, almost violently.

He came. And came. And came. His entire body convulsed. He called out.

It seemed to last forever. He moaned and gasped.

When he was done, she collapsed on him. She rested her head on his chest. He could feel her tears on his skin.

He couldn't think. The room spun. He wanted to speak, but no words came.

Finally, after long minutes, he rested his hand on her head, and gently stoked her hair.

--

The Morning After

Mark woke slowly, blinking in the late morning light streaming through the slats of the blinds.

He turned his head.

Claire was still asleep.

The covers were half-draped over her, the emerald dress now twisted and rumpled around her thighs. One strap had slipped down her shoulder. Her bare legs were tangled in the sheets, and her hair was a mess of curls and frizz and sleep.

Mark pushed himself out of bed without a word.

He stood under the hot stream of the shower, letting the water pound against his back, willing it to wash away the noise in his head.

But it didn't.

Downstairs, Mark quietly moved through the kitchen, straightening up the living room, folding the blanket Claire had left draped over the arm of the couch, emptying the dishwasher.

The kids would be home soon.

And somehow, life had to go on.

--

The sound of sneakers on the front steps.

Mark opened the front door it to find both kids. Mark walked out and thanked the Mom who was dropping them off. The kids spilled in to the house.

"Where's Mom?" his daughter asked.

"She's, uh... upstairs," Mark said coming back up the steps. "She's not feeling great. Just laying down."

They looked concerned for a moment, but they were hungry, and their excitement took over.

Mark moved into the kitchen, opening the fridge. "Let's do lunch," he said.

He made sandwiches, cut fruit, put out some chips. He listened as they filled the room with chatter--about soccer, about a diving contest at the pool, about some movie they watched at the sleepover.

And it was--normal.

Almost.

--

After lunch, they begged to go to the neighborhood pool.

He didn't argue.

He needed the distraction as much as they did.

He packed towels and sunscreen, made sure they had goggles, and they spent the next two hours beneath the sun, the kids laughing, splashing, diving.

Mark sat in a chair, sunglasses on, listening to music.

He tried not to think about it.

But he couldn't stop the images that still haunted him.

Claire, stumbling into the bedroom.

Tears in her eyes.

The nod.

--

They pulled into the driveway, the kids tired and damp and happy.

As they walked into the house, Mark stopped just inside the door.

Claire was sitting at the kitchen island, hair freshly washed, still damp at the ends, tucked behind her ears. She wore a loose sweatshirt and soft shorts, her knees pulled up slightly on the stool.

She was cradling a cup of coffee in both hands, staring down at the steam.

She looked up when they came in.

The kids rushed her.

"Mom!"

"I scored a goal!"

"We had pancakes twice!"

Claire lit up as they came around her, arms reaching for both, pulling them close.

Mark stood in the doorway.

And he watched.

His heart twisted as he took her in.

She was such a good mom.

So present. So warm.

The way the kids loved her--unconditionally.

It made something inside him ache.

--

Eventually, the kids moved on and ran upstairs. The silence in the kitchen grew loud again. Claire stood and walked slowly to the coffee machine. Mark sat at the island, arms crossed, still wearing his swim trunks and a t-shirt.

She poured a fresh cup. Went to the fridge. Got the milk. Poured it in. Stirred.

She walked to him and set it down gently in front of him.

Then returned to her stool.

They sat in silence. The air between them was heavy, still.

Claire looked at him. Her eyes were tired.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

Mark opened his mouth to respond--

But the chaos of life surged back in as the kids came bounding down the stairs.

--

The day wore on like a normal Sunday--dinner, dishes, shower and baths.

Mark and Claire didn't speak much beyond the logistics of parenting. Although their voices were gentle with the kids, and kind with each other--it lurked beneath. They were orbiting each other, waiting for the moment that was coming.

When the kids were finally in bed and the house was quiet again, Claire stood in the doorway of the living room. Mark was sitting on the couch, the TV on but the volume low, muted background noise filling the silence.

She watched him for a moment.

Then spoke.

"Can we talk?"

Mark didn't move.

She walked in slowly, her bare feet making no sound on the hardwood floor. She sat on the opposite end of the couch, curling her legs beneath her, wrapping her hands around the throw pillow like it was a shield.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

The TV flickered light across the room.

Claire was the first to break the silence.

"I never meant to hurt you."

Mark swallowed, eyes still on the screen.

"I know," he said.

Another pause.

Claire's voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't even know where to start."

Mark turned to look at her. "Start with what happened."

She inhaled slowly, closing her eyes for a moment. "We danced. We drank. We talked. A lot. He introduced me to all his friends. Everyone was so nice."

Mark nodded stiffly. "And?"

Claire looked down at her hands. "And we played the part. You know, like we talked about. John's new girlfriend. His friends... they really bought it. They all told him how lucky he was."

Mark clenched his jaw. "And you liked that."

Claire hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. I did."

He didn't speak.

She continued. "There was a moment--on the rooftop, just before the sun went down. It was beautiful. Like... stupidly beautiful. And I felt... I don't know." She paused.

Mark's face was unreadable.

She looked at him again. Her voice was shakier now. "And there was a dance. Just one, near the end. Slow. His hands were..." She trailed off.

Mark looked away.

"Did you kiss him?" he asked.

Claire took a long time to answer. Finally, she said, "Yes."

Mark's throat tightened.

"Did you go to his room?"

Claire blinked hard, tears forming again. "Yes."

He nodded slowly, his hands folding together in his lap. "Did you sleep with him?"

Claire's lips trembled. She couldn't speak, but she didn't need to.

Mark looked down, then exhaled, long and slow.

It felt like something had split inside him--something final.

There was no shouting.

No accusation.

Just a deep, raw ache.

Claire wiped her eyes, trying to speak. "I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't trying to leave you or blow up our life. It just... happened. And I'm not blaming the alcohol or the night or anything else. It was me."

Mark stared at the coffee table, the knuckles of his hands white where they pressed together.

Finally, Claire whispered, "What do we do now?"

Mark didn't answer right away.

Then, quietly, he said:

"I don't know."

--

The next three days passed like they were underwater.

Life, technically, went on--breakfasts, carpools, soccer practice, homework, groceries. The kids laughed. The dog barked. Meals were cooked. Dishes were washed.

But Mark and Claire drifted around each other like ghosts.

They spoke only when necessary. They were both present, but emotionally... gone.

Mark would linger in the kitchen just long enough to put a plate in the sink, then retreat to his office. He buried himself in emails, spreadsheets, pointless work. Anything that made the minutes pass.

Claire kept moving. She kept her hands busy--work, conference calls, folding laundry, cleaning, making lunches, braiding their daughter's hair, but her eyes were far off, her thoughts somewhere she wasn't ready to share.

At night, Mark would shut his office door. Claire would put the kids to bed, then curl up on the couch in front of the TV. She never came upstairs.

Every morning, Mark left early for the office. Always before she was up. Sometimes before the sun.

Each day, the silence grew heavier.

--

On the fourth night, Mark sat at his desk until almost 11 p. m. The glow of the monitor lit his tired eyes. He wasn't even working anymore--just clicking, scrolling, going in circles.

When he finally turned everything off and walked into the hallway, the house was quiet. No Claire. He could hear the faint hum of the television downstairs. Reflecting on the walls he saw the same flickering blue light she'd been sleeping in every night since she came home from the wedding.

Mark stepped into the darkened bedroom. He got into bed. But sleep wouldn't come.

His mind churned. The question kept surfacing--Is this it? Is this what the rest of their life looked like? Orbiting each other in silence, pretending nothing had happened while both of them carried the weight of it?

Could this be the end?

But one thought kept returning.

This is your fault too.

Mark turned onto his side, staring into the dark.

He had told her she could go.

More than that.

He had wanted her to go.

He'd gotten something from it--some twisted thrill from the idea of her with John.

The rush of fear. The burn of jealousy. The seductive unknown.

He'd told himself it was just fantasy.

At nearly midnight, the light from the hallway stretched across the bedroom floor.

Mark turned his head.

Claire stood in the doorway.

She looked eerily like she had that night--the night of the wedding.

Hair down, face bare.

She wasn't crying now, but she looked just as fragile.

She walked in slowly. Without a word, she paused by the bed. She stepped out of her leggings. She pulled off her panties. And just like she had that night, she climbed into the bed and straddled him.

This time, when she reached behind herself, he wasn't hard. She stoked him gently, in silence. Until he responded.

And then, just like she had that night, she lifted herself and guided him inside her.

They both gasped. She looked down into his face. "What can I do?"

Mark swallowed, his throat tight.

He spoke slowly, evenly.

"How did it happen?"

Claire stared at him.

Then, almost in a trance, she began to speak.

--

"It was like a dream," she said.

"There were so many people. So many names. His college friends, their wives.

"And so many drinks. Martinis, champagne. Everyone kept saying how amazing I looked, how lucky John was.

Mark said nothing. Claire continued, her voice drifting.

"And it was fun. With John. Pretending I was his girlfriend. Making up how we met, telling ridiculous stories about fake vacations. He kept making me laugh. Everyone loved us. We were the center of the room.

"We were winning."

She paused, looked at Mark.

"And the dancing..."

He nodded slightly. "Tell me."

She exhaled, her voice trembling.

"At first it was normal. Silly. Fun. Just a guy and a girl dancing at a wedding. But it changed. He started getting closer. Touching my back, my waist."

She felt Mark move slightly inside her.

"By the end, his hands were on me."

He began pushing, slightly against her.

Claire looked down.

"That's when he kissed me."

She sat back. She moved her hips side to side.

Mark's voice was quiet. "What did you do?"

She hesitated.

"I kissed him back," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Mark. I didn't plan it. I just got swept up."

"By what?" he asked, barely breathing.

"By everything. By him," she said. "By John."

She moved with more intensity now. Not bouncing, just a slow circular grind. She lowered herself down so they were face to face.

"He's so strong," she whispered. "He held me in his arms and I... I could feel everything. His shoulders, his chest. He smelled good. I laid my head against him during the last dance and just... I let go."

Mark felt like the room was closing in.

"And then it was late."

Now she lifted herself slowly up, all the way, and brought herself slowly down. She did it again, and again. "Everyone was gone. It was just us, sitting at this little table, looking down at Fifth Avenue.

"We were kissing. Deeper. Slower.

Now she was fucking him.

"He reached for my breasts and I let him. His hands were so strong."

She found a rhythm. She felt Mark respond, matching her stroke for stroke.

"And mine were on him. Feeling him. The muscle across his shoulders. His chest."

They were close, so close.

"He put his hand inside my dress. I let him go under my bra, Mark. John felt my bare tits."

She stopped moving. She lowered her breasts into Mark's face. He took them hungrily, kissing and sucking.

"Then the staff started closing down the bar. He didn't even say anything. He just stood up, held out his hand, and I took it.

"He led me to his room."

She sat perfectly still as Mark furiously fucked her. She didn't move, didn't respond. Just sat on top of him, feeling his hand grab the flesh on her waist, almost painful. His body convulsed and contorted. He stifled a scream as he came.

When he was done she rested her head on his chest.

Tears welled in her eyes again. And then the room fell silent.

They both waited in the dark, unsure what would come next.

After the Confession

They somehow made it through another day.

No mention of the night before.

No mention of anything.

Claire got up early, moving through the morning like a ghost in soft slippers, making lunches and packing backpacks while Mark stayed in bed, eyes open, listening to the sounds of her moving through the house.

By the time he came downstairs, she was gone--having taken the kids to school, folded into the rhythm of the day.

Mark felt hollow.

The silence between them had returned, as if the night before had been some shared dream.

The rest of the day passed in underwater quiet--normal on the surface, unbearable underneath.

--

That night, Mark sat in his office again, the light from his monitor throwing faint shadows against the wall. He could hear the TV murmuring faintly from downstairs.

He stayed in his chair until well after midnight and went to bed. He was already under the covers, the room dark, when he heard her.

Soft footsteps on the stairs.

The door creaked open.

She stepped in slowly. She pulled her sweatshirt off. Peeled down her leggings. Slipped into a tank top and fresh underwear.

Everything about her movements was familiar. The routine. The rhythm.

But the air between them was charged.

She slid into bed beside him, curled against his side like she used to, and placed a hand gently on his chest.

For a few seconds, there was only silence.

And then--

"Tell me what happened in the hotel room." Mark wrapped his arm around her, pulling her up on top of him, like before.

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"Yes."

She looked down into his face, weighing the question. Finally she nodded. She reached down and slid out of her underwear. She could already feel his rock hard cock pushing against her. She slid him inside.

Her breath caught for a moment.

Then she exhaled, softly.

--

"I didn't say anything," she whispered. "He just took my hand and led me through the hotel.

"He didn't pull me. We just... walked. My heels clicked on the marble. I remember thinking how loud they sounded in the hallway.

"I didn't feel scared. I didn't feel drunk. I felt..." She hesitated. "Weightless. Like I'd stepped out of my life."

Like before, she started slowly, moving gently from side to side.

Mark lay still, his heart pounding.

"When we got to the room, he opened the door, held it for me. It was quiet."

She swallowed. She rolled her hips in a broad circle.

"He took off his jacket. Took off his tie.

"I was standing by the window, looking out over the city.

"I could feel him come up behind me. He didn't touch me yet. He just stood there. So close."

Mark started thrusting.

Claire's voice softened further.

"And then his hand touched my back. Just one finger, running up my spine.

Mark moaned. He was fucking her now.

"I didn't stop him. I didn't even move. I just let him unzip the dress.

"It slid down, and I stepped out of it. I was still in the lingerie--the one you bought me.

Another long moan. Mark almost came. He stopped himself and grabbed her hips and stopped her too. They waited to see. He controlled it. She leaned down into his face and whispered.

"I think that's when he knew."

Mark's breath hitched.

"Knew what?" he asked, voice cracking.

Claire hesitated. "That I'd wanted it all along. Since he got into the car. Since he asked if I would go to the wedding"

Mark stayed entirely still. He held Claire in place. One movement would end it.

Claire continued.

"He kissed my shoulder first. Then my neck. Slow. Gentle.

"I was thinking about you. I was. But I couldn't stop. He lifted me like I weighed nothing. Carried me to the bed. And then..."

Mark lay in silence for a minute. "Did you... suck him?

Claire looked down. She nodded.

He groaned. His hips started moving, involuntarily.

"Did he, fuck you?"

"Yes Mark, he fucked me. He fucked your wife."

Mark was fucking her furiously.

"Did you like it?

"Mark, I loved it."

He exploded.

--

They never talked about "forgiving." They never talked about "moving on."

But after that night--after the night Claire took Mark inside her and told him the story of the hotel room in a whisper that trembled between guilt and fire--something shifted between them.

It wasn't resolution. But it was a rhythm. A strange new routine.

Each night, after the kids were in bed and the house was quiet, Claire would come upstairs. She would undress quietly, slip into one of her soft cotton tank tops or a loose nightshirt, and slide into bed beside Mark.

Every time, she curled into him the same way. Hand on his chest. Her breath steady. Waiting.

Sometimes he would motion for her to climb on top, like before.

Sometimes he would guide her head down between his legs.

Every time, he would say:

"Tell me more."

The questions started simple. Hesitant.

"Did he kiss you at the church?"

"No. Not until the rooftop."

"When did you first know something was going to happen?"

"Honestly, probably in the car. I think we both knew..." That drew a physical response from Mark, who gasped with shock and pleasure. "But for sure it was when he introduced me as his girlfriend. He his hand on the small of my back. He kept it there. And I didn't stop him."

Mark exploded.

"Were you thinking about me?"

"Yes," she said. "At first, it was almost all I was thinking about. I felt awful. I kept imagining you home, alone, wondering what was going on. That's why I sent those pictures. I wanted you to feel included. I wanted you to feel... safe."

She paused and kissed his dick up and down.

Then Claire added, her voice lower:

"But... as the day went on, that started to change."

He stiffened.

Claire continued carefully, drawing the words out like a slow thread.

"It just got so... wild. There were martinis and dancing. And John kept making me laugh."

Mark's stomach turned, but he also felt that now-familiar flutter--that sharp, low ache that somehow fed his need to know.

She was smiling now as she sucked him. Alternating between speaking and taking him all the way inside her mouth.

"We started making up stories. Fake fights we had. Fake trips. He had this entire bit about how we met on a delayed flight to Miami. His friends loved it. And they loved me. I could see it in their faces. Like I was some prize he'd won."

Mark closed his eyes and came.

It was a torment.

But it was also... electric.

--

Night after night, it continued.

Mark's questions got more specific. Claire's answers, more detailed.

One night:

"Did you like the way he touched you when you danced?"

Claire didn't answer right away.

"I loved it." She let that hang in the dark. "His hands are so strong. And he is so confident. It felt..." she searched for the word. "Like he was claiming me. And I wanted it."

Mark could feel the tension growing--an almost unbearable ache.

--

A New Charge

As the nights grew hotter, their days began to thaw. Not all at once. But bit by bit.

Mark made Claire a second cup of coffee before leaving for work. She kissed him goodbye.

One day, she sent him a photo of the kids at the park.

He replied with: Dinner together tonight?

She wrote: I'd like that.

That night, they cooked together for the first time in weeks. Their elbows bumped at the sink. Claire laughed. It felt almost normal.

But not like before.

Because beneath the smiles, beneath the errands, beneath the school pick-ups and soccer schedules--there was something else.

All day, they were thinking about the next session.

Claire would text:

"Early bedtime tonight?"

Mark would reply:

"I hope so."

That simple exchange could light his entire body up.

At dinner, she would reach across the table for the salt, and her fingers would graze his. He'd look up and see that glint in her eye--the one that said Yes, I know what you're thinking about.

He would watch her folding laundry and think about her in that rooftop bar, on John's lap, lips parted, eyes closed.

And she would catch him staring and smile. Softly. Knowingly.

The air between them was charged like it had never been before.

--

One night, Claire came into bed and snuggled up against him. She looked at him, waiting for his request. Instead of asking her to move, he sat up. He pulled down the covers and moved down the bed. He put his head between her legs, and rested it on her thighs. He gently stroked her through silk of her underwear. He peeled them off. She gave them up willingly, raising her hips off the bed to allow them to slide off. He moved his lips to her pussy and kissed her. He licked, up and down, softly at first, on the outside. She arched her back and groaned in pleasure. After a few minutes he pushed inside, tasting her, feeling her wetness. She put his hands on the back of his head and purred.

He pulled back. "Was his cock big?"

Claire gasped. She looked straight up the ceiling. Mark had never asked about the most intimate details of the night in John's hotel room. Her mind raced. What should she say? Then she felt Mark's face press into her thighs and his tongue enter her pussy. She purred in pleasure and brought her hand back to the back of his head. She understood.

"It was huge, Mark."

His licking became more aggressive.

"It took my breath away."

He raised his hand to her clit.

"I literally gasped when I took it out."

He spread his tongue and licked her across lips, tweaking her clit. She gasped now, too.

"It was long, and it was so thick. So thick Mark. I could barely get my hand around it."

He lifted his head. "You touched it?"

She looked him in the eyes. "Oh God yes, Mark. When I saw it I couldn't resist. I took him in both hands. It took both hands to hold it all."

Mark devoured her pussy.

Her breath was becoming shallow now.

"Mark it was so much bigger than... I'm used to."

Mark groaned. He reached down and started jerking himself off.

"I kissed it. I held his balls, they were so big and full."

Mark was licking as fast as he could, rubbing her clit and pleasuring himself.

"Then I took him in my mouth. You should have heard him moan.

"He was... it was... different than it is with us.

Mark stopped. He was breathing so hard he could barely get the word out.

"How?"

"He was so rough. His hands and arms were so strong.

Mark was close now. So was she. Her fingers were digging through his hair and into his scalp. He could feel the muscles in her abdomen start to contract.

"He held me down. He jerked my head around. He... he fucked my mouth."

Mark turned his head from her pussy. He gasped, trying to catch his breath, and groaned.

"I loved it Mark. I loved it. I almost came right there, just from him fucking my mouth."

Mark stopped touching himself. He was going to finish, but they were not done. Claire was not done. She was still talking, softly

"But I was worried."

"Worried about what?" Mark gasped.

"I was worried that... he was too big. That I wouldn't be able to take him."

Mark grabbed his cock and started jerking. He buried his face into her pussy.

"But then he took me, with those hands, and he threw me onto the bed.

"He wasn't gentle, Mark, not like us.

He grabbed my legs and slid me to where he wanted me.

"I almost came again when he did that.

"And then he pushed up between my legs.

"He started to finger me to get me ready. But I was already so wet.

"He grabbed my legs so hard. Mark I had bruises.

"He pulled them apart. I felt his dick up against me. He held it there, just the tip pressing into me. And..."

"What?" Mark asked, gasping deeply.

"He said, 'You are so fucking beautiful'. And he shoved it in.

"How did it feel?" Mark asked, his voice strained and shaky.

"Amazing. Like nothing I've ever felt before.

"It hurt. It was so big. It took us time to... make it fit.

"But then, he was fucking me.

"I remember pressing my hands against his chest, and wrapping my hands around the muscles in his arms.

"He kissed me, and I wrapped myself around him. He was so solid, so strong, so hard."

They both let go. Their bodies convulsed. Claire's thighs squeezed Mark's head so hard it hurt. Mark exploded in his hand, showing the sheets with his cum, and collapsing into the warmth of his wife.

--

The Encounter

The late afternoon sun slanted through the trees at the edge of the park, casting long shadows over the dusty infield. Kids milled around in mismatched uniforms, shouting and chasing balls while the coaches wrapped up drills.

Claire stood near the first base line, arms crossed loosely, watching their son chase a grounder. She could see Mark across the field, crouched near the dugout, tossing gear into their son's bag.

And then she saw him. John.

He was standing near the batting cage, laughing with another dad, a hand on his hip, his baseball cap pushed back slightly. His t-shirt clung to his frame, still damp from practice.

Her breath caught. A wave rolled through her.

Terror first--an electric jolt of what if he says something, what if someone sees something in their faces, what if he gives it all away.

But under that--Fire. The kind that bloomed low in her body, spreading heat and shaking the center of her.

She hadn't seen him since that night. Since that room. Now, standing twenty feet away, he glanced over and saw her.

Their eyes met. She swallowed hard.

He gave her a warm, casual smile. A nod. He walked toward her.

Every step made her heart thump harder. She took a shallow breath. Composed her face. Tried to be normal.

"Hey," John said, stopping a few feet away. "Didn't know if I'd see you guys today."

Claire forced a smile. "Yeah, we almost didn't come. Long day."

She was proud of how steady her voice sounded.

"Tell me about it," John said, glancing toward the field. "Sixth graders have way too much energy this time of year."

They stood there, side by side, watching the boys on the field. To anyone walking by, it was perfectly innocent. Just small talk. Just two parents chatting about practice.

But Claire could feel it. The air between them.

His eyes flicked toward her once--lingering a beat too long.

His tone was smooth, controlled, but every word seemed to have a double edge. "I was thinking about that rooftop bar the other day," John said, casually. "Incredible view."

Claire's heart skipped.

Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly. "Oh?" she said lightly. "Yeah... it was."

She felt her face flush. A tremor moved through her.

He was playing it straight. But only just.

The glint in his eye was unmistakable.

And she was trembling--caught between fear, desire, memory.

Then--Mark.

She saw him walking toward them, their son trailing behind him with a baseball bat over his shoulder.

Her stomach flipped.

Mark's eyes locked on John.

Claire felt the entire atmosphere tighten.

"Hey," Mark said as he approached.

John smiled. "Hey, man. Long time."

Mark's voice was steady. "Yeah. Been a while."

John nodded, glancing toward their son. "Kid's got a good swing. You been working with him?"

Mark didn't smile. "A little."

Claire stepped in. "He's been getting better. We've been practicing in the yard."

Mark glanced at her, then back at John.

Mark could feel it. Something. Not a smirk. Not gloating. Nothing overt. But it was there. John's body language was loose. Relaxed. Comfortable. Mark felt a twinge of sickness. Because John knew. John knew he knew. And John also knew Mark couldn't say a damn thing.

Claire felt it all--every breath, every glance--and jumped in.

"Well," she said, smiling too brightly, "we should probably get going. Early dinner."

John nodded. "Of course. Good to see you both." "You too," Claire said quickly. Mark didn't speak. He gave a short nod. They turned.

Walked away.

Claire kept her face forward. She didn't look back.

--

The car was quiet.

Their son had earbuds in. Their daughter was watching a show on a tablet.

Claire and Mark sat in silence.

Finally, as they turned out of the parking lot, Mark said, under his breath, "Did you see his face?"

Claire whispered, "He didn't say anything."

"He didn't have to," Mark replied, voice low. "He was enjoying it."

She looked down at her lap, guilt rushing through her. "I'm sorry."

Mark glanced sideways at her.

And what surprised him was that he wasn't furious. He was burning, yes. But not with anger. With something darker. More complicated.

Because watching John look at Claire like that--and knowing he couldn't do a thing--had struck something deep.

And Claire. He could see it in her eyes. The way her cheeks were still flushed.

She had felt it too.

--

The kids were finally down. The dishwasher hummed in the kitchen. The living room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the muted TV. Mark sat on the couch, a beer in his hand, one foot tapping restlessly on the rug. Claire walked in slowly, holding a glass of wine.

She sat onto the couch next to him--not too close, not too far.

They sat in silence for a minute.

"Well... that was fun," Claire said.

"Yeah. I love casual run-ins with guys who've had sex with my wife," Mark said. "Makes my Saturday."

Claire winced. She took a sip of wine. "I didn't know he'd be there."

"His kid's on the team," Mark said. "Would've been weird if he wasn't."

Claire leaned her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling. "God. When he walked over, I thought I was gonna pass out."

"Yeah, well... you looked calm," Mark said. "I'll give you that. I, on the other hand, was about one smug grin away from taking a bat to his kneecap."

She laughed "I was so scared he'd say something. Or look at me weird."

"Oh he was looking at you."

Claire chuckled. "I could feel it. The whole time. Like there was a giant neon sign over our heads blinking 'WE HAD SEX.'"

Mark didn't laugh. He just looked at her. "Yeah. That's kinda how it felt on my end too."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Claire said.

Mark nodded, staring at his beer. "I know."

They sat for a few seconds.

"So what now? Claire asked. "We just... keep running into him? Pretend it never happened?"

"I don't know," Mark said. "Maybe we just move?"

Claire laughed. "Think the kids would go for that?"

"We wouldn't ask them."

They both went quiet again. The air was lighter now, but just barely.

"I don't know how to be around him," Claire said. "I don't know what to say. The way he looks at me... God, this is so messed up," Claire said.

"Yup."

Neither spoke for a while. Claire put her wine glass down and curls her legs underneath her. "You're still okay... with us talking at night? About it?"

Mark hesitated. "Yes."

"Good."

They were quiet again, the TV flickering aimlessly.

Claire scooted over so she was sitting against him. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

The dishwasher clicked off in the kitchen. The house was quiet except for the low sound of the TV.

Mark spoke. "So... when you saw him today... Were you still attracted to him?"

She didn't answer right away.

She stayed still, her head on his shoulder.

She knew what she was supposed to say: No, not anymore. It was a one-time thing. He's not that great. I'd never go there again.

But she didn't think was the right answer. Not what Mark wanted, or needed.

She felt him, his body tense, his breathing shallow.

Waiting.

"Yes. Yes, Mark. I was."

She lifted her head slowly and turned to face him. She kissed his lips gently.

"Why?"

Claire shifted even closer. Her voice took a different tone now--part confession, part... something else.

"Because the second I saw him, everything from that night came rushing back."

Mark's jaw tightened. She reached down and put her hand in his shorts.

"His hands. His mouth," she spoke softly into his ear. "His arms around me. I felt it all again. My knees actually got weak, Mark. I couldn't stand steady."

She watched his reaction.

There it is. That flicker in his eyes. The hurt. The fury. The thrill. She stoked him slowly.

"I was nervous. But I was also... on fire. My skin was humming. I wanted to run, but... part of me couldn't wait for him to get closer. Just to see what it felt like again."

Mark didn't speak.

His chest was rising faster now. Claire studied him. And she knew. This is what he needs. She took a breath, and twisted the knife, gently, as she sped up her stroking.

"I looked at his arms, Mark. His forearms. Remember the way I told you he held me, that night? I remembered how hard they felt under my hands. I remembered how he lifted me, how his fingers slid under me and pulled me closer."

Mark closed his eyes. He looked like he's in pain. She stopped. She let go entirely, leaving him throbbing in the air.

"The way he dragged me across the bed to him."

He tried to grab her hand and replace it. She brushed him off. She shook her head and said, "No, Just listen."

She leaned in, lips near his ear again.

"I looked at his mouth, and I remembered how he kissed me against the hotel door. How I couldn't think straight. How I wanted to be his."

Mark exhaled sharply. He grabbed himself. Again she brushed his hand away.

"No, Just listen."

He sat, the agony on his face as his cock throbbed, unattended.

"I love you Mark. But when I saw him? I wanted it again."

"Jesus, Claire, please."

She looked down at his purple cock. She shook her head and continued.

"I remembered how it felt when he touched me... when we were dancing and his hand slid down my back and settled on my ass, when he leaned in and whispered something in my ear--I felt my whole body light up. Like I was twenty again."

"What did he whisper?

She let out a small laugh. "He said, 'You are so fucking hot.'"

She grabbed him and stroked furiously, roughly.

"And when we kissed... when he pressed me against the glass railing and kissed me like he'd been waiting all night to do it--I remember thinking, this is going to ruin everything. And I didn't care. I didn't care Mark. I just wanted him so bad I didn't care."

He exploded.

Claire stood up leaving him covered in his own cum on his thighs and his shorts.

"Now clean that up and come upstairs," she said, her voice impossibly casual. "It's my turn."

--

Two nights later they laid in bed, the kids long asleep in their rooms.

"Do you ever imagine going out with him again?" Mark asked.

Claire turned to him slowly. Her smile was faint--almost sad.

"Yes. "All the time."

"Tell me how it would happen."

"You really want that?"

Mark was already breathless. "Yes."

"Ok. But wait. Don't move."

She reached over to the side table next to the bed. She opened a drawer. She rolled back onto the bed holding her favorite pink vibrator.

"Go sit in the chair," she said.

"What?" Mark asked.

"Go," she pointed. "Sit there."

Mark was confused, but he got out of bed and sat in the arm chair against the wall. Claire propped herself up in the pillows, resting against the headboard. She clicked the power button. The whirl of the little motor filled the room.

She lowered the vibrator between her legs. She brushed it against her underwear, looking down at herself as she moved it up and down.

She looked up and looked Mark in the eyes.

"I always image that we run into each other somewhere," she began. "Maybe by accident. Maybe not. He asks if I want to get a drink. I tell him no. I'm married. I can never do that again. I love my husband."

She moved the vibrator up a bit, until it brushed her clit. She left it there, feeling the buzz through her cotton underwear.

"But then he smiles at me, and I see those dimples. And he cocks his head and looks at me with those eyes, and he says, "Just one drink. Mark will never know."

Mark's cock strained against his shorts. He pulled them down, and held himself.

She shook her head.

"No, just listen.

Mark let go of himself, leaving his cock throbbing in the air. "And you go?"

Claire continued lightly pleasuring herself through her underwear. "Yes Mark. I know he's right. You'll never know. So I go."

"Where would you go," Mark asked.

"Somewhere quiet. A place out of town, where no one would see us. He'd ask how I was doing. He'd say he missed me. I'd tell him no. It was just a mistake. But inside? I'd be buzzing."

"What would he do?"

"He'd lean in, close, Claire said. "And I'd remember everything. The way he smelled. The way his hands felt on my waist. And it would all come back like a wave."

She pressed down with the vibrator, holding it first on her pussy lips, and then on her clit. She let out a small moan.

"What would you do?"

"I'd think about you. I'd remember how good things have been. How close we've gotten. I'd think that this could ruin it all." She slipped the vibrator under the edge of her undies.

"But?"

"But I'd be looking at him. At those arms. His shoulders. His body it so thick, so strong. And part of me would say, just once more."

She pulled the underwear aside and inserted the vibrator into her pussy.

"You'd risk all that?"

"Yes. He's not like you, Mark."

That landed. Mark's eyes flickered.

She started fucking herself with the vibrator, slowly.

"What do you mean?"

Claire didn't rush. She moved the vibrator in and out. She let the silence stretch, then met his gaze. "He's so big. Powerful. The way he talks. It's so different than you." Claire speeded her motion. In and out.

Mark swallowed, staying quiet.

"He wouldn't ask, Mark. He would tell me to come with him. And I would give in. Even though I love you, I would go with him."

"Where would you go?"

Claire smirked. Slow. Deliberate. She was leaning into the game now.

She moved the vibrator to her clit and held it there. "We couldn't go to his apartment. That would be too risky. Someone might see me there. And we definitely can't come here--because you'd be home. With the kids."

"So we go to his truck."

Mark's eyes closed. Just for a second. The image was already forming.

Claire's breathing was getting faster. "It's parked in a dark spot. He has my hand, pulling me. I'm walking toward the truck in heels, my coat wrapped around me. My stomach's in knots. I know exactly what's about to happen. And it scares me."

She slid the vibrator down so it rubbed her pussy lips while it massaged her clit. "I've already crossed a line. There's no turning back. And you're home, Mark. I can see you. You've put the kids to bed. You're having a beer. You're wondering where I am, why I'm late. You're worried. But I don't care.

She slid the vibrator along her soaking pussy, up and down. "And then he opens the door and helps in up into the passenger seat. The feel of his hands on me sets me on fire.

"He walks around and gets in. He doesn't say anything. He grabs my arm and pulls me to him and kisses me--hard.

"Mark last time, in the hotel room, he was so gentle. But he's not gentle this time."

She inserts the vibrator all the way. Her body shudders. "His hands dig into my shoulders. He grabs my breasts so hard it hurts.

"I can't think. I can't breathe. He's so strong, Mark. He's so strong that I'm scared. I couldn't' stop him if I wanted to."

She is fucking herself as hard as she can.

"But Mark. I don't want to stop him. I don't want him to stop."

Mark's jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

She pulls out and rests the vibrator on the outside of her pussy lips. She's so close, but the story is not done yet. Her chest heaves. "He unzips his jeans and pulls out his cock. He grabs my head and pulls me down to his crotch. He's so hard. It's right in my face. Against my cheeks, my nose. He grabs my hair and it hurts. He pulls me up to the tip. I want to resist, tell him he can't treat me like this, but I can't. Instead, I do what he wants. I take him into my mouth."

She moves back up to her clit. Her eyes close. "He's so big Mark. Even with the tip of his cock in his mouth I have my hand around him, jerking him off. I can barely wrap my fingers around him. Then it gets really rough. He grabs the back of my head and fucks himself with my mouth. It hurts, I gag."

She's moving the vibrator in circles on her clit.

"It almost makes me cum, right there on his seat. Then he lets me go. I'm gagging and gasping. But then I look up at him. I see his beautiful face. His head back against the headrest. His eyes closed from the pleasure I'm giving him.

"So I take a deep breath and wrap my lips around him again. I make love to his cock. For so long Mark. While you're home with the kids, I'm making love to John's cock with my mouth.

Mark loses control. He grabs his dick and starts jerking off.

"I think he' s going to cum, Mark. I feel his cock throb in my mouth. I feel his leg muscles tense. But instead, he grabs my hair and pulls me up.

"He turns my whole body. He's so strong. He hurts me when he turns me. Now my head is facing the door. My face is near the seat. My ass is in the air.

"He pulls my dress aside and fingers me under my panties.

"I'm moaning. I'm so wet. But he doesn't wait.

"He shoves his cock inside me.

"It hurts. It's too big. It stretches me. It feels so good I think I'm going to pass out.

"His hands are gripping me, bruising my hips. He smashes into me. My face hits the seat and the door.

"He bends down into me. He reaches around and tears open my dress. My tits fall out. He grabs them. It hurts.

"It all hurts so much. I lose control and cum while he explodes in my pussy.

Not breaking eye contact, she pushed the vibrator hard onto her clit, spinning it in a small circle. She came. He exploded, spewing cum all over himself in the chair.

--

Something New Emerges

The months that followed the wedding were some of the best of their lives.

They laughed more.

Touched more.

Even looked at each other differently.

Every time Mark caught Claire brushing her hair in the mirror or leaning over the counter in jeans he didn't recognize, something stirred in him--not just desire, but awe.

She's still the one, he thought, over and over again.

And Claire, watching him move around the kitchen, or slip into bed with a quiet tired smile, felt the same thing.

He was still hers. All of him. Her steady anchor and her most dangerous flame.

Their secret was simple: They'd looked into the abyss... and turned toward each other instead of away.

--

Over time, something new emerged.

One night, on a whim, Mark had opened his laptop and pulled up a video. Married couples, other men. Hotwives and cuckolds.. Claire had curled up next to him, curious. They watched it together.

And something clicked. A new edge.

It became part of their rhythm. Not every night--but sometimes, when the world was quiet, and the kids were asleep, and they wanted to relive that feeling... they'd find something, put it on, and let it stir things awake again.

It worked.

Until it didn't.

As winter faded to spring, something began to dull. Not their love. Not their passion. But the urgency. That raw, dangerous edge that had pushed them into new territory... it had softened. Like a vivid memory blurring at the edges.

Mark noticed it first. He didn't say anything at first. But he felt it. The way Claire still turned to him in bed. The way she still whispered things in his ear. It was good. But it wasn't what it was.

And for days, maybe weeks, he wrestled with himself. He couldn't believe he was thinking about it. Couldn't believe he missed it. But he did.

And one night, as they sat on the couch, legs intertwined under a shared blanket, a movie playing in the background, he finally said it. Quietly. Like a confession. "Remember how intense things were with us... right after the wedding?"

Claire turned to him. Her face lit with curiosity. "Yeah. I do. It was wild."

Mark nodded. Took a breath. "Do you... miss it?"

Claire tilted her head. Not guarded. Just... intrigued. "Yeah. I guess I do. It was great. Why? You planning another wedding?"

Mark chuckled, but his eyes were serious.

"Me too. I miss it. I don't know why. Or maybe I do. It was just... something else."

Claire looked at him for a long moment. Then she shifted a little closer. "Would you ever want me to do something like that again?"

Mark thought. "I don't know. Probably not. But... maybe yes? I don't know."

Claire nodded slowly. Thoughtful. "I know what you mean."

They sat in the quiet for a long time.

The TV flickered, forgotten.

Claire leaned her head on his shoulder. Her voice was soft. "Do you think... it would really work again? I mean... after all this?"

Mark looked at her, trying to read her face. "I don't know. Maybe."

"It would have to be different," Claire said.

"It could never be John," Mark responded.

"God, no."

"Or anyone we know," Mark added.

"Absolutely not."

Mark let out a breath. Long. Tight. He didn't say anything.

Claire reached for his hand under the blanket. Squeezed it once.

And then--her voice changed just a little. Lighter. Teasing. "There's a lot of guys we don't know."