Chapter 1
Chapter One
Mel
The movie credits start rolling and I’m already standing.
The music swells through the living room speakers, names crawling up the screen, but my hands are reaching for the empty glasses before the final chord fades. The cushions shift as I rise. Dan doesn’t look away from the television.
With a few clicks on the remote control, the baseball game comes on. Early July means mid-season tension. Red Sox versus someone. I don’t register who.
I collect our glasses from the coffee table. Mine still smells faintly of pinot. His has the deeper edge of bourbon. The condensation has left rings on the wood. I bend over and wipe them with the hem of my shirt before heading to the kitchen.
The house is quiet. Too quiet, and I swallow. I miss our boys.
The dishwasher door opens with a soft click. Plates slide into their grooves. Silverware clinks gently. The domestic rhythm is so familiar I could do it in the dark.
The cat appears the moment I step toward the pantry.
He winds himself around my ankles, tail flicking against my calf, fur brushing my bare skin. I scoop a little more kibble into his bowl even though he doesn’t need it. His gratitude is immediate. Loud purring. Head bumping my shin like I’m indispensable.
I crouch for a moment and stroke warm, soft fur. Needing the connection, I linger there longer than necessary.
In the living room, the crowd roars from the television. Dan shifts on the couch. The leather sighs under his weight.
I walk back in and pause behind him. He smells like soap and the faint trace of smoke from the grill earlier. His shoulders are broad against the back of the couch. I lean down and press a kiss to his cheek.
“Night,” I say.
He turns enough for our mouths to brush instead.
His hand squeezes mine once, absentmindedly, already turning back to the game.
There was a time he wouldn’t have let me walk away that easily.
There was a time he would have turned the television off with one decisive click and followed me up the stairs. All heat and intent and the unspoken understanding that the world could wait.
I straighten and climb the stairs alone.
The hallway light casts a warm glow across the walls. I move through the nightly ritual without thinking. Bathroom sink. Toothpaste. The small click of the medicine cabinet closing. Moisturizer pressed into skin that doesn’t bounce back the way it used to.
I change into my long cotton sleep shirt.
When was the last time I wore anything not chosen for ease and comfort?
The bed dips slightly as I slide under the covers. The other side remains undisturbed. The faint scent of Dan’s aftershave lingers on his pillow.
Downstairs, the game crowd erupts again.
I reach for my phone and open the audiobook I’ve listened to at least a hundred times. It’s comfort food for my ears, my mind, and my heart. The narrator’s voice fills the darkness.
The story swells toward its inevitable confrontation. I know every beat. The way he corners her. The way his voice drops. The way she melts because she wants to be taken. Claimed. Held in place by certainty.
My body reacts before my mind catches up.
I shift onto my back and let my hand drift over my sternum. My palm slides down over my breasts, fingers circling the areolas. The sensation is familiar, but the soft skin and careful pressure are wrong.
It’s not the same.
Dan’s hands are larger. Rougher. Callused in places from decades of work. They used to cover me entirely. Used to press with purpose instead of drifting.
“Mine,” the narrator bites out. “My mate. Aren’t you?”
A quiet laugh slips from my throat.
Hot damn.
If only Dan still sounded like that.
If only he looked at me like something worth claiming.
I wet my lips and let my hand slide lower, fingers tracing the curve of my waist, dipping beneath the waistband of my plain cotton panties.
My breath deepens.
The hero in the story doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t wait for a sign. He takes.
I press my thighs together and close my eyes, imagining for one reckless second I hear a noise.
That footsteps climb the stairs.
That the bedroom door clicks shut with intention.
That the weight on the mattress shifts.
Instead, the game announcer shouts from downstairs.
Reality seeps back in.
I withdraw my hand slowly, frustration sharper than desire now.
The audiobook continues, passion swelling in the dark. I turn onto my side, facing the empty space beside me.
The sheets are cool there.
Too cool.
I pull the comforter higher and tell myself it’s fine.
Solid marriages don’t need fireworks all the time.
But as the hero claims his mate in the background of my headphones, I can’t help thinking—
Maybe I do.