It started with silence.
Not the awkward kind—this was heavier, thicker, like the air itself didn’t want to move.
The clock on the wall ticked too loudly. Rain tapped against the window in soft, uneven rhythms. On the couch, Jack sat half-turned toward her, his knee almost brushing hers. Almost.
Sara didn’t look at him. Not directly. She traced the rim of her wine glass with her finger, slow, deliberate circles, pretending she didn’t notice his restless breathing.
She always pretended.
Married for twenty-two years, two grown kids, and a husband who hadn’t touched her like this in a decade. Jack knew that, even though neither of them had ever said it out loud.
Her phone buzzed on the table—her husband’s name lighting up the screen. She didn’t pick it up.
Instead, she shifted. Just slightly. The hem of her blouse lifted as she crossed her legs, exposing a line of skin she didn’t bother to hide.
Jack swallowed hard. “You should probably answer that.”
Her lips curved, faintly. “Should I?”
The way she said it wasn’t a question.
The sound of the rain faded, or maybe his pulse was just louder now. Her hand rested near his on the couch cushion, fingers tapping once, twice… before curling around his.
Slow.
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. Her grip tightened, warm and certain, pulling his hand toward her thigh—closer than he should’ve let it go.
“You know this is wrong,” Jack whispered, his voice hoarse.
Her breath trembled as she leaned in, her cheek grazing his. “You think I don’t?”
Her wine glass clinked softly against the table as she set it down, freeing both hands now. One brushed his jaw, the other guided him lower, her nails grazing his wrist like a silent demand.
In that moment, every unspoken rule between them shattered. The guilt, the hesitation, the years of pretending—they collapsed into something heavier, hungrier.
Her grip tightened again when he hesitated. Not pleading. Claiming.
Jack knew he should’ve pulled away. But the way she exhaled against his neck, the way her blouse slipped from her shoulder as if gravity had chosen a side—made every rational thought dissolve.
Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, neither of them cared.
She whispered, almost to herself, “I don’t get to want many things anymore.”
Jack looked at her then—really looked—and saw more than just desire. He saw loneliness, defiance, and a quiet fury at being unseen for so long.
And when she kissed him, slow and certain, he finally understood:
She wasn’t asking. She was taking.