All Set
Leah Dunn
I love my life. I love my life. I love my—
“MOM! Kurt is poking me again!”
Kayla’s shrill, eight-year-old voice pierces the morning like a rusty fork on ceramic. My hand freezes mid-toast-butter and I squeeze my eyes shut for exactly one second before snapping them open and turning, all smile gone.
It’s always something—poking, yanking ponytails, throwing Legos like hand grenades. Sometimes I wonder if I birthed a pair of feral raccoons instead of two supposedly civilized children.
“Kurt, hands to yourself. Kayla, drink your milk. Now,” I say, that flat, clipped tone I didn’t know I had until I became a mom.
“But I wasn’t poking her!” Kurt whines, already going red in the cheeks, arms flailing like the injustice of it all is physically attacking him. “She made a face at me first! You always take her side!”
Here we go.
I open my mouth to referee, but just then, Pete emerges from the bedroom like some blessed apparition—tie already knotted, cuffs buttoned, face suspiciously calm. Within seconds, he scoops Kurt up like a sack of potatoes and tosses him gently onto the couch with a practiced swoop.
“Okay, okay. No one’s taking sides,” he says, planting a kiss on my temple and narrowly dodging a cereal box Kurt flings in protest.
“But she does this all the time, and you never—”
“He’s lying, Dada! I did not make a face!” Kayla’s eyes are saucer-wide and already swimming with pre-tears, dramatic little hands flailing in concert.
Pete raises both eyebrows and cuts in fast. “Alright, hey. Nobody calls anybody a liar in this house, okay? Let’s just breathe.”
I shoot him a grateful look. Somehow, some damn how, he always steps in right before I start screeching like a harpy in front of the fridge. The man has timing like a bomb squad technician.
Meanwhile, Kayla slurps her milk with smug satisfaction and Kurt mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like “faker.” I pretend not to hear it. I’m not emotionally prepared to deconstruct the ethics of sibling rivalry before coffee.
Still, as I turn back to the toaster, Pete’s warm hand grazes my back, grounding me for a second, just long enough to exhale.
I love my life. I do.
...most days.
“Alright, teeth! Lunchboxes by the door!” I bark, slipping full throttle into my drill-sergeant voice, clapping my hands twice for emphasis like that’s going to make the chaos obey.
Two little blonde heads bob off in opposite directions, grumbling and stomping and trailing socks like breadcrumbs. The hallway echoes with the dull percussion of bare feet on hardwood, the rustle of backpacks being yanked off hooks, the eternal lament of lost shoes and missing homework folders. Kayla is humming something tuneless under her breath. Kurt is mumbling about how “he brushed yesterday, so technically it’s her turn to go first.”
I close my eyes again—half prayer, half mental reboot—and turn to clear the breakfast plates.
Before I can even reach the sink, Pete’s arm snakes around my waist and pulls me back against him.
“Where’s my morning kiss?” he murmurs, low and warm, his breath curling against the sensitive dip just beneath my ear. He knows exactly what he’s doing—sneaking up quiet like that, all pressed cotton and aftershave and smug husband grin.
Twelve years. Two kids. One mortgage, one minivan, and more sleepless nights than I can count. And still, when he touches me like that—deliberate, unhurried—I melt against him like I’m twenty-three again, fresh out of grad school, sloshing a full caramel latte down his dress shirt in the middle of the café line.
I’d been mortified. He’d laughed. I told him to send me the dry-cleaning bill. He asked for my number instead.
“You already got your kiss,” I say, smiling into his chest, letting my hands rest against the crisp buttons of his shirt. “Remember? That whirlwind three-second peck between cereal spills and coffee burns?”
He turns me toward him slowly, fingers slipping under the hem of my shirt to find the warm skin at my waist.
“That wasn’t a kiss,” he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That was a drive-by.”
Then his lips are on mine—gentle, but firm. Familiar, but still sparking. His thumb strokes the underside of my jaw, and for a second, everything fades—the ticking clock, the morning rush, the sounds of World War Toothpaste erupting down the hall.
Just him. Just us.
And then—
“Ewwwwww!” Kayla squeals from the hallway, peeking around the corner with her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. “Mom and Dad are KISSING!”
“I’m blind!” Kurt shouts dramatically, flopping onto the rug in mock agony.
Pete groans, forehead dropping to my shoulder with a muffled laugh. “Twelve years,” he murmurs, “and we still don’t get five damn seconds.”
“Nope,” I say, reaching past him to pluck a rogue sock off the kitchen island. “We had our chance before the kids learned to walk.”
He kisses the side of my neck anyway, quick and cheeky. “Worth it.”
I roll my eyes but don’t fight the grin pulling at my lips. The chaos sweeps us forward—backpacks zipped, juice pouches packed, Pete herding the kids toward the car while I clean the last of breakfast off the counter and rinse spoons that never made it to the dishwasher.
Outside, the driveway is a blur of noise and motion: Kayla clambering into the backseat with her stuffed unicorn clutched like a weapon, Kurt already halfway in and yelling something about how she took his side of the car again.
“Stop calling me a worm!” Kayla shouts, her voice a high-pitched wail as she attempts to whack him with her pencil case.
“You are a worm! You’re slow and you squirm and you smell like—”
“Okay! That’s enough!” Pete cuts in, his dad-voice rising just enough to freeze them mid-squabble. He turns and shoots me a helpless little shrug like what can you do? and I start toward the front door with his thermos in hand.
I’ve already got his briefcase under my arm when I notice it—something barely peeking out of the outer pocket, the flap just askew enough to catch my eye.
A folded slip of paper. Not one of the kids’ scribbles or a sticky note from me. No hearts, no breakfast reminders. Crisp and narrow, deliberately tucked.
I pause, thermos half-lowered. Curiosity flicks, small and fast. My fingers slip it out before I’ve even thought about it.
All set. See you at 8. — M.
I freeze.
It’s handwritten. Neat. Loopy cursive, not mine. Not the kids’. Not anything I’ve seen around the house.
Eight?
Tonight?
There’s nothing on the calendar. Pete didn’t mention any late calls or dinner meetings or... anything. And that signature—M. Just the one initial. Familiar. Casual. Too casual.
My stomach flips, one slow, oily turn.
“Kurt, move, you’re hogging the door!” Kayla shoves past him, backpack bouncing, voice sharp.
The noise shakes me out of it and I blink fast, tucking the note right back where I found it, slipping the flap down like it was never disturbed. My hand trembles just slightly as I lift the thermos again.
Pete’s voice calls out from the car, “You got my coffee?”
“Yeah,” I say too quickly, voice a little too high. “Coming.”
I shut the front door behind me and paste on a smile as I walk toward him. He meets me at the sidewalk, that same boyish grin he’s always had, reaching for the thermos and leaning in for a quick peck.
“You’re the best,” he says.
“Don’t forget it,” I murmur, because that’s what I always say.
He climbs in, the car starts, and the kids wave like maniacs from the back seat as they pull away. I wave back, standing there with my bare feet on the warm concrete, heart thudding behind my ribs like a fist trying to knock its way out.
Eight.
Tonight.
M.
And Pete said nothing.
I watch the car disappear around the corner, then slowly walk back inside, the front door closing behind me with a soft, definitive click.
The silence is immediate. Oppressive. It settles over the house like a weighted blanket I didn’t ask for, and my breath comes shallow as I stand in the entryway, still holding nothing, doing nothing, just… spiraling.
What the hell was that note?
All set. See you at 8. — M.
Who the hell is M?
My brain latches onto the question like a terrier with a bone. I don’t want to go there. I don’t. But the thought, the possibility, creeps in anyway—slick and rotting and insistent.
Is he cheating on me?
No. No. Pete isn’t—he wouldn’t—
Would he?
I start pacing. I don’t realize I’m doing it until I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror—barefoot, arms crossed, mouth set in a grim line, eyes too wide. I look like someone bracing for bad news. Like I’m already mourning something I haven’t confirmed.
And just like that, my mind starts doing what it does best: building a case against him.
Exhibit A: The note. Written in a stranger’s hand. No context. Tucked into his briefcase like a goddamn secret.
Exhibit B: The nights. So many long nights. “Extra hours, babe. I swear, just a couple more months and we can book the Disney trip.” How many times has he said that? Four? Five? How many nights did I fall asleep with the TV still on and an untouched plate of pasta in the microwave?
Exhibit C: The smiles. Lately they’ve felt… thinner. Like he’s trying too hard to seem tired, too quick to mention how much he’s doing for us. Is that guilt? Or am I just losing my mind?
I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to stop the flood, but it’s too late.
Now I’m thinking about every woman with the first name M. At school functions. At church. Neighbors. Colleagues.
Maggie?
No. She’s married. And loud. Not Pete’s type.
Melissa?
She works in his office building. I’ve met her once at a holiday party. Blonde, slim, too polished. She laughed too hard at his dumb story about Kurt getting his head stuck in the stair railing.
Marcy? Maria? Morgan?
Do I know her?
Do I want to know her?
My stomach twists hard, and I grip the edge of the kitchen counter just to steady myself. The granite’s cool under my fingertips, grounding me for a second as I try to get ahead of the tailspin.
This can’t be real. Pete’s not a cheater. He’s the man who gets up to warm Kayla’s milk because she says it “tastes sad when it’s cold.” He’s the man who plays Monopoly with Kurt until midnight even when he has to be up early. He’s—he’s mine. Isn’t he?
But then again… that note wasn’t from me.
And he didn’t say anything.
I open the drawer with the takeout menus, dig past the pens, the stray paperclips, the expired coupons, until I find it—his work calendar. He never takes it with him anymore; everything’s digital now. But I flip through it anyway, page after page, looking for any scribbled meeting, any lead. Nothing.
Tonight is blank.
My heart is pounding so loud I almost don’t hear the buzzing.
The dryer.
I forgot about the laundry.
But the thought lingers, sour in the back of my mouth:
What if everything I’ve believed about him—about us—has already started to rot from the inside out?
And I just didn’t see it.
Not until now.
The hours crawl, slow and jagged. I clean everything. Not in that passive, light wipe-down way I usually do between errands—but in a full-body, purging frenzy like I’m trying to scrub the question out of the grout.
The kitchen floor? Mopped twice. The junk drawer? Emptied, sorted, wept over, and rearranged like a shrine to forgotten coupons and dead batteries. I even vacuumed under the couch cushions, found a petrified gummy bear and three Barbie shoes. And still, nothing inside me feels settled. Because I’m not cleaning the house—I’m stalling. I’m trying to drown the questions in Lysol.
When was the last time we had sex?
That question sneaks in while I’m on my knees scrubbing the tile in the guest bathroom. My scrubbing slows. Then stops. I blink hard.
It’s not like we don’t love each other. I do. I know I do. But lately…?
It’s been what? A few weeks? A month?
There was that night after Pete’s quarterly meeting, when he came home late, and we had wine on the porch. He kissed me like he meant it. That was nice. It felt real. But it was over fast, and we were both tired, and the next morning Kayla had a meltdown about her cereal being “too loud.”
Did he even enjoy it?
The question hurts worse than it should. Like admitting that I might not be enough anymore. That maybe I’m… fading to the edges of his world, part of the furniture instead of the fire.
I throw the sponge into the bucket and sit back against the wall. My shirt clings to my back with sweat. My palms are raw. The house smells like lemon cleaner and exhaustion.
I pull my knees up and rest my forehead on them.
Was it me? Did I talk too much about the bills?
There’s been stress, sure. Always is. Two kids, a mortgage, braces on the horizon, Kurt’s soccer fees, that cracked pipe under the kitchen sink that set us back nearly a grand last month. I’ve been on him about it all. I know I have.
“Can you just take five minutes to look at the insurance portal?”
“We need to talk to the bank about refinancing.”
“I’m serious, Pete. I don’t want to put off Kayla’s orthodontist any longer—she’s self-conscious about her overbite and it’s getting worse.”
That one stuck in my mind like a splinter.
We’d had a huge argument. Not yelling, but cold—icy, clipped words across a dinner table neither of us touched. He thought we should wait. I said she needed it now. He thought I wasn’t listening to reason. I thought he was prioritizing savings over her self-esteem.
He slept on the couch that night.
And in the morning, it was like nothing happened. Coffee, kids, kisses on the cheek, like we’d pressed ‘Reset’ on the whole conversation and agreed never to hit ‘Play’ again.
But I remember the way he looked at me—tired. Frustrated. Like I was a problem he couldn’t solve.
I squeeze my eyes shut and lean my head back against the wall.
What if that was it?
What if that was the moment?
What if some woman named M showed up in the middle of all of that—some coworker who laughed at his stories, who didn’t nag about bills, who didn’t throw budgets and dental plans in his face during dinner? What if she made him feel like less of a failing husband and more like the man I used to see, back when we were all new and shiny?
What if she just… let him breathe?
I force myself to stand, grabbing the bucket and pushing the thoughts down deep where I hope they’ll stay.
But they don’t.
Because there’s still that note.
Still tonight.
And still M.
Should I confront him?
The question pulses in my head like a heartbeat, over and over, louder than the hum of the refrigerator, louder than the kids’ empty bedrooms, louder than my own doubt.
Maybe I should.
Just call him. Right now. Hear the sound in his voice. See if he stumbles over an excuse or if that calm, practiced tone clicks in like nothing’s wrong. Like he isn’t meeting someone at eight o’clock tonight. Like there isn’t some woman out there signing notes with just an M.
Maybe I should follow him. Catch him in the act. Show up at wherever he’s supposed to be and watch the look on his face when he sees me standing there. Surprise, honey. You forgot to tell me about your date.
But then the thought slams into me like a brick wall: the kids.
I can’t just leave them. What would I do—toss Kurt and Kayla a pizza, say “Mommy’s gotta go investigate Daddy’s affair, don’t wait up”?
No. I can’t. I won’t drag them into this, not until I know something real. Not until this stops being a feeling and becomes a fact.
So instead, I go to the bathroom. Strip down. Step into the shower like it might rinse the doubt off me along with the sweat and dirt.
The water’s hot, too hot at first, scalding across my shoulders. I don’t adjust it.
I let it burn.
Soap. Rinse. Conditioner. Loofah. Mechanic. Robotic. My hands move on autopilot like muscle memory from a life I used to live before the note.
When I get out, the mirror is fogged, but I wipe it with my palm and stare.
God.
Is that really me?
I look nothing like I did when we got married. Back then I was fresh, glowing, bright-eyed, skin taut, legs shaved daily. I used to highlight my hair every few months, those soft caramel streaks he used to run his fingers through while I read on the couch. Now?
Now my roots are grown in like a slow confession. The blonde has dulled, darkened with time, like the shine faded somewhere between daycare pickups and Costco runs.
I turn sideways. My belly has that little pouch—Kayla’s gift to me. It never quite went away, no matter how many crunches I did, or smoothies I skipped. I cover it with high-waisted jeans now and hope no one notices. But I notice. Especially now.
I lean in closer to the mirror, eyeing the faint lines at the corners of my eyes. There’s a tiredness there that makeup can’t cover. I used to wear lipstick. A little mascara. Now, unless we’re going to a wedding or a school gala, my face is bare more days than not.
Did I get too comfortable?
Did I stop trying? Did I make it too easy for him to look elsewhere?
I think back to our sex life—how it used to be spontaneous, wild, insatiable. We’d sneak off in restaurants, make out in the car, barely make it through the door some nights. And now? Now it’s scheduled. Quiet. Practiced. It’s nice, sure. Tender. But is it enough?
Is it… boring?
Did I let myself become boring?
I bite the inside of my cheek and look away.
I’ve given this man everything—two children, a home, twelve years of love and compromise and effort. And yet here I am, standing naked and damp in a steamed-up bathroom, wondering if some woman with perfect nails and fresh highlights has his attention instead.
I wrap the towel tighter around my body, but it doesn’t help. I feel exposed anyway.
I go through my normal routine, like I haven’t been unraveling inside all day.
By five, the kids tumble through the door like a hurricane of noise and backpacks. Kurt’s shouting about some game he lost at recess. Kayla’s already crying because her glitter pen dried out. I make them snacks—apple slices and peanut butter—and sit at the table while they work through homework, my hands busy peeling carrot sticks, my mind nowhere near the kitchen.
I smile where I should. I nod when they ask me things. I laugh—too hard, too late—at one of Kurt’s ridiculous knock-knock jokes. He gives me a weird look but shrugs it off.
It all happens automatically. Reflex. Like blinking.
When they’re done with homework, we play a board game, and I let Kayla win without pretending I didn’t. She grins like the world’s been handed to her on a sparkly pink platter. I stare at the curve of her nose, the tiny dimple when she smiles. She’s got Pete’s eyes. It makes my chest twist.
At some point between cleaning up and folding a load of laundry, I go upstairs and blow-dry my hair. It feels ridiculous. Like dressing up for a war. But I do it anyway, parting it just right, adding a little gloss to my lips before I head back downstairs.
Seven o’clock sharp, the door opens.
“Hey!” Pete calls, voice casual, normal. Like he isn’t coming back into a house already simmering with suspicion. Like there isn’t a secret folded up in his briefcase pocket.
He steps inside, keys jangling in one hand, tie already halfway undone.
I watch him from the kitchen.
Nothing’s off.
Not a thing.
He looks… the same. Tired, but not too tired. Button-down wrinkled at the sleeves, briefcase slung under one arm, that easy smile on his lips when he spots me.
“Hey, babe,” he says, leaning in for a kiss on the cheek. “Kids okay?”
“Yeah. Homework’s done, they’re upstairs playing.”
“Good, good.” He exhales and slips the tie the rest of the way off, laying it across the arm of the couch like he always does, loosening his collar. “Smells good in here. Did you clean?”
I nod, eyes flicking to the clock. 7:02.
He doesn’t say a word about going back out.
No call he has to return. No errand to run. No sudden meeting sprung on him by some vague client.
I keep watching him. My stomach coils tighter with every minute that passes.
Is he gonna say it?
Is he waiting for me to bring it up?
Is this the part where he lies to me?
He glances over as he kicks off his shoes. “You okay, hon?”
There it is. His voice has a little hitch in it now. Just a thread of awareness. Not quite guilt—but something. He’s watching me too closely, maybe.
I swallow.
“Uh—yeah. Okay.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You look a little pale.”
“Just tired,” I say, quick. Too quick. I force a small laugh. “You know how it is. Kids, cleaning, carrot sticks. It’s glamorous stuff.”
He smiles, but his eyes stay on me a second longer. Assessing. Measuring.
Does he know I found it?
Does he care?
The clock ticks. 7:05.
He disappears into the hallway, heading upstairs to change, and I’m left standing there with a dish towel in my hand and my pulse in my ears, still waiting.
Still wondering.
Still not knowing what he’s going to do at eight o’clock.
He showers. He plays with the kids. Laughs. Makes a mess of the throw pillows during an impromptu wrestling match with Kurt while Kayla squeals from the armrest. He looks every bit the man I married. Smiling, joking, tugging at Kayla’s braid with a wink like it’s just any other Wednesday.
And I’m in the kitchen, hands moving on their own—stirring a pot of pasta, grating cheese, wiping the counter until it’s spotless, then wiping it again.
All while the clock ticks louder than the stovetop burner.
7:41.
Nothing.
No call. No explanation. No subtle “hey, I might head back out later” or “don’t wait up.” Just normal. Perfectly, painfully normal.
7:48.
Still nothing. My breath is shallow, like if I breathe too deep it’ll all come spilling out. I glance at the clock again. Is this woman close by? Is she waiting in a car down the street? Is she planning to pick him up?
7:52.
And then—
Ding-dong.
The doorbell cuts through the house like a blade.
“I got it, babe!” Pete calls, already moving toward the front door with that familiar casual lilt in his voice. Like someone dropped off a package. Like nothing is about to come undone.
My spine stiffens.
I dry my hands quickly on the dish towel and step out of the kitchen just far enough to peek into the living room.
He’s standing at the open door, leaning slightly forward, talking to someone on the porch, voice light, friendly.
Then I hear it.
“Come on, kids, Aunt Mallory is here!”
What.
I blink.
“Aunt Mallory?” I echo, my voice catching like it’s tripped on itself, snagged on something I can’t quite name yet.
Pete turns and flashes me that same goddamn smile—charming, warm, and utterly unbothered. “Yeah! You remember Mallory—my cousin from Portland? She and her husband just moved into the neighborhood. I mentioned it, right? I told her we could do a playdate with the kids.”
My heart starts thudding. Loud. Disproportionately loud.
M.
Mallory.
The M.
“Playdate?” I repeat, dumb and hollow.
“Hey, Leah,” Mallory says, her voice slightly rushed, but not nervous. Just… casual. Like she’s used to smoothing awkward edges. “Yeah, so, my son Caleb’s nine, he’s been having a hard time making friends since we moved, and Pete told me Kurt’s really into Pokémon. Thought they’d hit it off. I know it’s last minute—I should’ve texted you first.”
She laughs softly, rubbing her neck, trying to disarm me with friendliness. It doesn’t land.
She’s not exactly pretty. Not in that perfect, glossy way that kicks up red flags. Her hair’s pulled into a no-fuss ponytail. Her clothes are clean but lived-in. No lipstick, no perfume cloud trailing behind her. Definitely not Pete’s usual type—if he even has a type.
But still.
That note.
Tucked in his briefcase.
Written by hand.
Signed M.
Is this her angle? Show up friendly, rope the kids together, worm her way into our life like she belongs?
Then—
“Oh, M! Hi!” another voice cuts in—deep, warm, and undeniably male.
A man appears behind Mallory, tall and lanky, tugging a nervous-looking boy along with him.
“Sorry,” he says, smiling easily. “Caleb was basically vibrating when you told him Kurt likes Pokémon. He couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.”
Mallory turns, laughing, and reaches for the boy’s backpack. “I told you,” she says, nudging him with her elbow. “Didn’t I say they’d be a perfect match?”
The kid gives a shy wave toward the house. A second later, Kurt yells from the hallway, “Do you have the shiny Charizard or not?” and they’re off, racing up the stairs before I can blink.
Then Pete claps his hands.
“So—everyone ready?” he says, looking way too pleased with himself. “Kayla, go grab your backpack. Kurt, get your stuff together too.”
“Okay!” the kids chime together, already halfway to their rooms, moving like this is something we do. Like this has been planned. Like I’ve been informed.
“Wait—what’s happening?” I ask, turning to Pete.
He gives me that look—the one that’s meant to be reassuring, like he’s letting me in on a clever surprise. “Oh. Mark and I figured it out earlier—kids are doing a sleepover at their place. Mallory said they’ve got space, and we haven’t had a night off in forever, right?”
A pause. A beat.
Mark.
So.
M was Mark.
I blink again, not trusting the relief that rushes up. It’s sharp, fleeting, and tangled in something else—embarrassment? Confusion? Dread?
“Oh,” I say slowly. “Right. Mark.”
He grins. “Yeah. I texted him this morning, told him it was all set.”
He walks past me like it’s settled, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But my body is still stuck three steps behind.
All set.
See you at 8.
My face burns.
It wasn’t Mallory. It wasn’t a woman at all.
It was her husband.
The note was from Mark.
I stand there for a second, stunned into stillness while everyone around me moves. The kids rush down the stairs, Caleb already showing Kurt something on his tablet. Pete is handing over overnight bags like he’s handing out party favors.
Mallory gives me a warm smile as she grabs a tote full of snacks. “We’ll have them back by ten tomorrow morning, promise. You guys should sleep in.”
Mark gives a little salute with his coffee thermos. “Enjoy your night off.”
Pete brushes past me again, drops a quick kiss on my cheek. “Surprise,” he murmurs. “You’re free. Just us tonight.”
He smiles, like it’s some kind of reward.
Like this night—kid-free, planned behind my back—is supposed to be some romantic gesture, something I’ll melt for. Like he’s the hero of this little surprise movie, and I’m supposed to fall into his arms, grateful and swept away.
And all I can do is smile back. Tight. Thin. My mouth does it out of habit, but my heart’s not in it. It’s thudding so hard I can barely hear the kids saying goodbye. And underneath it, hot and sour, is that sharp twist of shame in my gut.
Because I know what I thought.
I know what I felt.
The door closes behind Mallory and her picture-perfect little family. The laughter of the kids fades down the sidewalk. And as soon as it’s just us—empty house, dim foyer, silence wrapping around us like a noose—Pete comes to me.
He doesn’t hesitate. His arms slip around my waist like they’ve done a thousand times before, his body warm, solid, familiar. He smells like aftershave and laundry, and his hands are gentle, sliding up my back like he’s trying to erase the day from my shoulders.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my temple. “You okay?”
I don’t move.
He pulls back a little, searching my face. “I thought you’d be thrilled we had the night for us… Isn’t it a surprise?”
I blink.
The words are stuck in my throat like dry bread. My hands are stiff at my sides, heart still galloping from the sudden high and crash of the last hour.
Then it slips out.
“I saw the note.”
His brow furrows. Confused. Earnest. “What note?”
I laugh—sharp, humorless. “The note. The one in your briefcase.”
He frowns, clearly trying to rewind through the last forty-eight hours. “Leah, what—?”
“‘All set. See you at 8. M.’” I say, each syllable clipped. “Ring a bell?”
Something flickers across his face. Not guilt. Just... realization. Then he exhales, shoulders slumping a little.
“Oh, that,” he says, like I just reminded him about a grocery list. “That was Mark. He passed me in the hallway yesterday at work—just got transferred into the local branch. I was in a call and told him to drop it in my bag.”
He shrugs like it’s obvious. Like it was never a question.
And maybe it wasn’t—to him.
To me? It was everything.
I stare at him. My mouth opens. Closes. I can’t seem to find the right words, only the wrong ones.
“I thought…” I swallow hard. “I thought you were cheating.”
He stops cold.
His hands drop from my waist.
For a second, we just stand there. The air between us suddenly thick and charged, like we’ve stepped onto a wire and neither of us knows how much weight it can take.
He stares at me, blinking once, then again—like maybe he didn’t hear me right.
“You what?” he asks, voice low, not angry yet, just stunned.
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I didn’t know who ‘M’ was,” I say, softer now. “I found the note. It was hidden. You didn’t tell me anything about tonight. And I just… I spiraled.”
His eyes narrow a little, not in suspicion, but in disbelief. “You thought I was cheating on you? Leah…”
“I know. I know how it sounds,” I whisper. “I didn’t want to believe it. But you’ve been working so much. And I started thinking about how things have been between us. How long it’s been since we—”
“Jesus, Leah.” He runs a hand down his face and turns away, pacing for the first time. “You thought I was sleeping with someone else, and you didn’t say anything? You just let it… sit?”
I don’t respond. I can’t.
Because I know how ridiculous it all feels now, in hindsight. But then? That note felt like a grenade. That moment felt real.
“I didn’t know what to do,” I say finally. “I felt like I was drowning. I didn’t want to accuse you if I was wrong. I didn’t want to be wrong. But I couldn’t shake it. I kept thinking—what if it’s been happening all along and I’ve just been blind?”
He’s quiet. Too quiet.
“I’ve been tired, Pete,” I go on. “And maybe I haven’t been… me lately. And I kept wondering if you noticed. If maybe you wanted something else. Something easier.”
His head whips around. “Are you serious?”
I meet his eyes. “I was scared.”
He steps forward again, slowly this time, like I’m a wounded animal he’s afraid to spook.
“Leah,” he says again, voice low, steady, like a hand pressed against a wound. “I’m not cheating on you. I would never cheat on you.”
Something inside me shudders. All the adrenaline I’ve been running on drains at once, leaving my knees weak. I nod, but tears are already stinging, hot and stupid, blurring my sight.
He cups my face between his palms, thumbs brushing the damp at the corners of my eyes. Warm, calloused, solid. “Leah,” he murmurs, “you’re the love of my life. The mother of my kids. My heart. There’s no one else in the world for me but you, baby.”
His words hit me like a pulse—soft but firm, grounding and terrifying all at once.
I sniffle. “But I haven’t gone to a salon in months. My body is not the same. We talk more about money than anything else, and I… I know sex hasn’t been…” My voice cracks. “Hasn’t been what it used to.”
“Hey, hey…” he interrupts gently, sliding his hands down to my shoulders. “You’re still the prettiest woman in the world to me, and yeah, our bodies changed. I’m not the same guy either. I don’t have a six pack anymore, my hair’s going gray, and it’s fine. It’s us.” He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. “And sex—yeah, we haven’t been doing as much.”
He smiles then, a small, crooked thing that feels almost like the old days. “But that’s why I shipped our gremlins to another house.”
I blink, startled. “What?”
“I want you, Leah,” he says, eyes locked on mine. “I want a whole night of just us. Loving you. No interruptions. No ‘Mom!’ every ten minutes, no bills on the table, no chores waiting. Just me and you.”
For a moment, the house is utterly still. His words hang in the space between us like a held breath. I feel the warm slide of his thumbs still stroking my jawline, the faint smell of his aftershave, the weight of twelve years of history pressing up against this single point in time.
A night. No kids. No distractions. No spirals.
Just him.
Just me.
I swallow hard, my pulse catching at the edges of relief and desire.
“You… planned this?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling again. “Not because something’s wrong. Because I want to make something right.”
He leans in, nose brushing mine, and in that tiny distance between our mouths his voice drops even lower, intimate:
“Let me show you.”
The words leave his lips and hang there—Let me show you—and something in me just… gives. Like the tight wire I’ve been stretched across all day finally snaps, and I fall right into him.
My fingers find the front of his shirt, balling in the fabric like it’s the only solid thing in the room. His hands don’t move, don’t rush. They stay on my face, still, like he’s holding something precious. And when he leans in, the kiss isn’t urgent.
It’s reverent.
Slow, warm, grounding. Like he’s reminding me who we are, who we’ve always been underneath the laundry piles and grocery lists and orthodontist appointments.
I kiss him back, and for the first time in too long, it doesn’t feel automatic. It doesn’t feel like a routine. It feels like waking up.
He pulls away just enough to whisper, “I’ve been thinking about this for days.”
“Yeah?” I breathe.
“Yeah. Been picturing it—us. Not exhausted, not rushed. Not fitting it in between bedtime and emails. Just you.”
His hands slide down now, over my shoulders, down my arms, wrapping around my waist. His grip is firmer, the kind of hold that says, I’m not letting go until you believe me.
“You don’t have to do this for me,” I say, voice low, uncertain.
He leans close to my ear. “I’m doing it for us.” A pause. “But I want you. Right now. All of you.”
I close my eyes and let myself feel it—his breath against my cheek, the warmth of his chest against mine, the way his words sink into me, deeper than touch.
His mouth finds my jaw, then lower, down my neck, the lightest graze of lips. My skin prickles. He knows where to kiss me, exactly how soft, how slow. And when he pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes are dark, hungry, tender.
“Come upstairs with me.”
I nod.
He takes my hand—not in a rush, not pulling—but lacing our fingers together like it’s a promise. We walk up the stairs quietly, his thumb stroking circles into my palm. It’s stupid how much that tiny gesture undoes me.
In our bedroom, he pauses by the door, turns to me. His expression is softer now, touched with awe, like he’s looking at something he didn’t know he missed until it was right in front of him again.
He steps close again, his hands finding the hem of my shirt.
“Can I?” he asks.
I nod again, biting my lower lip. “Yeah.”
He peels it off slowly, like it’s delicate. Like I’m delicate. And I should feel shy—I haven’t been looked at like this in ages—but I don’t. Because the way he looks at me?
It’s not judgment. It’s not comparison.
It’s devotion.
“You’re so damn beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing my shoulder, my collarbone, the center of my chest. “I don’t care about highlights or bellies or salons. This—you—you’re what I want. You’re home.”
I shiver under his touch, and my hands find his belt buckle, not clumsy, but purposeful. There’s no pretense now. We undress each other like we’re relearning old territory. Like this is something sacred.
When we fall onto the bed, it’s quiet. No talking. Just skin, heat, and memory.
He kisses me like he’s patient. Like he has nowhere else in the world to be. And when he slides into me—slow, so slow—I gasp, clutching his shoulders. It’s familiar and new all at once. Like the first time we made love, only deeper now, thicker with history and promises and the weight of everything we’ve built.
He holds my hands above my head, fingers laced with mine, rocking into me gently. My thighs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
“I never left,” he says, kissing me again. “But I’ll keep finding you, every time.”
Pete’s mouth is on mine again, hotter this time, more urgent now that we’ve said what needed saying. My legs are wrapped around him, our bodies pressed chest to chest, and I can feel the hard line of him against me, thick and heavy, just barely restrained. He’s still holding back, still being patient—but barely.
His hands roam my body slowly, reverently—palms sliding over my sides, my ribs, the soft dip just beneath my breasts. He cups them, thumbs grazing over nipples that tighten under his touch. I arch into him, breath catching, and he smiles against my mouth.
“There she is,” he whispers. “There’s my girl.”
I shudder beneath him, my skin humming with heat. Every inch he touches feels lit, like a flame trailing in the wake of his fingers. I reach down, fumbling with the waistband of his boxers, desperate to feel all of him—finally, after what feels like weeks of nothing but tension and half-sleep kisses.
He lets me, groaning when I wrap my hand around his cock, thick and hot and pulsing against my palm.
“Fuck, Leah…”
His hips jerk slightly, instinctive, like he’s already fighting to keep control. I stroke him once, twice—slow, deliberate—and he hisses through his teeth before grabbing my wrist gently, pulling my hand away.
“No more teasing,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss the corner of my mouth. “I need to be inside you. Right now.”
I nod, breathless. “Yes. God—yes.”
He shifts between my legs, and I open for him without hesitation, thighs falling wide as his cock nudges against me, slicking along my folds. I’m already soaked, aching, ready in a way that makes my breath catch again when he pushes in—just the tip at first, then a slow, steady slide that fills me inch by inch.
I gasp, my nails digging into his back.
“Shit,” he groans, eyes fluttering shut as he bottoms out. “You feel… fuck, Leah. You feel so good.”
He stills there, buried deep, and kisses my throat as I cling to him, legs wrapped tighter around his waist. We breathe together for a second, just feeling. It’s not rushed—it’s not fucking for the sake of fucking. It’s us, connected again in a way that words couldn’t fix.
Then he starts to move.
Slow thrusts at first, deliberate and deep, rolling his hips like he’s trying to memorize how I feel from the inside. I meet him, rising into every stroke, panting softly into his mouth when he kisses me again.
“More,” I whisper. “Harder…”
He growls low in his chest and grabs my thighs, adjusting, angling deeper—and when he thrusts again, harder this time, I cry out, back arching.
“Right there,” I moan, nails dragging down his back.
He fucks me steadily now, hips snapping into mine, the sound of our bodies meeting thick in the darkened room. My name leaves his lips in a rough groan every time he buries himself to the hilt. Sweat beads on his chest, dripping onto mine, mixing, sliding between our bodies.
“God, Leah—fuck—this body,” he murmurs, reaching down to palm my breast, his thumb flicking my nipple again, “You’re perfect. You’re mine.”
His words wreck me, make my eyes sting all over again—but not with grief. With something deeper. Something holy.
I grip his face and kiss him fiercely, rolling my hips to meet every thrust, my moans breaking against his lips.
I feel it rising fast—pressure coiling low in my belly, thighs trembling around his waist, pleasure cresting sharp and overwhelming.
“Pete—oh God, I’m gonna—”
“I’ve got you, baby,” he pants, his pace relentless now. “Let go. I want to feel you come around me.”
And I do.
My orgasm rips through me, wild and blinding, and Pete doesn’t stop. He keeps moving through it, unrelenting—his hips grinding slow and deep, dragging every last wave of pleasure out of me until my legs tremble and my breath is broken and uneven. His mouth is everywhere—my jaw, my neck, my lips—whispering my name like it’s holy.
When I finally start to come down, he doesn’t let up. His rhythm is steady, perfectly tuned to my body, and God, he’s always known exactly how to touch me, how to keep me teetering right on that edge again.
He leans up just enough to roll one of my nipples between his fingers, pinching gently, then harder. I gasp, my body jerking with the spike of sensation. His mouth follows, tongue circling before he sucks—slow at first, then with more pressure, his other hand palming my other breast like he’s reclaiming every inch of me.
“Pete,” I whimper, breathless, aching again already.
“Yeah, baby?” he murmurs around my nipple, voice thick, wrecked.
“You’re gonna make me come again.”
He grins against my skin. “That’s the idea.”
Then, without warning, he pulls out and flips me over—fast, strong, confident. I let out a surprised yelp, landing on my stomach, knees barely catching before he’s behind me, hands gripping my hips. I feel his gaze rake down my back like heat.
“Fuck,” he breathes, rough and low. “I miss the view of your ass.”
He slides a hand up the curve of it, squeezing hard, thumb grazing the dip of my spine before he lines up again. The blunt head of his cock presses against my entrance, slick with both of us.
Then he slams inside me.
“Pete!” I cry out, arching hard into the mattress as he fills me again—deeper like this, the angle sending shockwaves through my core.
He groans behind me, grip tightening on my hips as he pulls almost all the way out, then drives back in with a force that knocks the breath out of me.
“This—” thrust “—is—” thrust “—mine.”
I moan, high and shaking, knuckles twisting in the sheets.
“You are mine, Leah.”
His pace is savage now, hips snapping into me again and again, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the walls. His belly presses to my back with every stroke, cock dragging deep and thick, brushing just the right spot again and again until my thighs quake and I’m gasping into the mattress.
“You still take me so good,” he groans. “You feel so fucking tight when you come. You wanna do that again for me, baby?”
“Y-yes,” I choke out, barely coherent.
His hand slides between my legs, fingers finding my clit, and when he starts circling—fast, precise—I scream into the pillow, my entire body locking up.
“Come on,” he growls. “Give it to me. I want to feel you milk my cock, Leah.”
I cry out his name again—high, raw—my second orgasm tearing through me like lightning. My muscles clench down on him hard, and he shouts, hips jerking wildly.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—Leah—” He grits out my name like it’s breaking him. One more thrust, then another—and he’s coming, deep inside me, cock pulsing hard as he empties himself with a deep, guttural moan, slamming into me and staying there.
We collapse together, breath ragged, sweat-slick and tangled in limbs and sheets. He doesn’t pull out. He wraps his arms around my waist and holds me close, mouth pressed to my shoulder.
For a long time, we just breathe.
We stay like that—locked together, skin against skin, the room heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and everything that came with it. Pete’s still inside me, softening slowly, his arms wrapped tight around my waist, his chest rising and falling against my back. Every breath we take is synced, like some buried rhythm found its way back to the surface.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. Another to the side of my neck. His hand smooths up and down my stomach, slow, lazy, like he’s petting me. Like he can’t stop touching me because he needs to know I’m real.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice muffled by my skin.
I nod, cheek turned into the pillow. “Yeah.”
He pulls out gently, slow enough to make me sigh, and I feel the warmth of him trickling between my thighs. I roll onto my back, muscles aching in that sweet, sated way I’d almost forgotten, and look at him—really look.
He’s propped up on one elbow, staring down at me like I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. His hair’s a mess. His lips are swollen. His eyes are still dark with what we just did. But behind it—love. The kind that’s been built, earned, bruised a little, but still standing.
“I thought I lost you,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
His brows pull together. “You didn’t.”
“I thought I did,” I say again, softer. “Not just today, not just the note. Just… lately. I didn’t know if we were still… us.”
He exhales hard, then leans down to kiss me slow. “We’re still us,” he says against my lips. “We just forgot how to look at each other for a while.”
I nod, throat tight.
“You should’ve told me,” he adds, brushing hair from my face. “What you were feeling.”
“I didn’t know how,” I admit. “It felt stupid. Like, we’re raising two kids and doing everything right and I’m still lying in bed some nights wondering if you’re getting tired of me.”
He frowns, hard. “Leah. I’d never get tired of you. Yeah, life’s been messy. And I’ve been... I know I’ve been caught up in work, and money, and all that bullshit. But I look at you and I still see the girl who spilled coffee all over me and turned bright red and swore she was going to change the world.”
A wet laugh escapes me. “I was a disaster.”
“You were fearless,” he says. “And yeah, maybe we don’t rip each other’s clothes off in parked cars anymore—but I still want you. More than anything. And I love you. That’s not going anywhere.”
I reach up and touch his jaw, thumb grazing the stubble there. “I love you too.”
He leans down and kisses me again, softer this time. No heat. Just depth. The kind of kiss you give to someone you’re going to wake up next to when your hair’s a mess and the kids are screaming and your hips ache from the night before.
Then he smiles. “Come on. Shower with me.”
I smirk. “Round two?”
“Round two,” he says, already pulling me up by the wrist, “and cuddling. Lots of cuddling.”
We stumble to the bathroom, still naked, still flushed, our bodies marked by each other in ways I know will last longer than the night. And as the water runs and the steam rises, I let myself fall into him again—not just his arms, but the us we found again.
This time, I don’t question it.
Because he’s right.
Life might knock us now and then.
But I still love—love—my life.
