Four
The kitchen is its own planet at five-thirty.
Light cuts through the windows. The island is buried—backpacks mid-collapse, a half-built Lego ambulance, sliced apples sweating into the wood, goldfish crackers scattered like they’ve made a permanent home in the wrong places.
Jason stands at the counter folding laundry like it’s a controlled sport—precise, methodical. Every so often he snaps a towel, the sound cracking through the music Brielle forgot she put on.
She’s supposed to leave in five minutes.
Maybe seven.
Instead, she’s stuck in the loop—checking her phone, brushing lint from her coat, opening and closing her purse like something useful might appear if she tries hard enough.
The group chat lights up.
Claire: Whoever gets there last buys first round. I’m not above sabotage.
Rachel reacts immediately. Of course she does.
Brielle types On my way!—then stops.
Her reflection catches in the microwave.
Red dress.
Coat open.
Hair intentionally undone.
She looks like she doesn’t belong in this kitchen.
She looks—
dangerous.
Jason watches her in the reflection.
Quiet.
Deliberate.
He always does this—sees everything, says nothing until it matters.
She feels him waiting.
She doesn’t give him anything.
Phone in one hand, protein bar in the other. She glances down—chocolate smeared across her knuckles.
She wipes it off quickly.
Too late.
Jason saw.
Of course he did.
He’s the one who breaks it.
“You’ve been different this week.”
No buildup.
No soft landing.
Just there—set between them like something solid.
He doesn’t stop folding.
Doesn’t even look at her yet.
Brielle blinks.
Laughs, too fast. “Yeah, maybe I’m finally getting enough iron.”
She grabs her keys.
Sets them down again.
Jason doesn’t smile.
“Not in a bad way,” he says. Calm. Measured.
A pause.
“You seem… awake.”
The word lands.
Harder than it should.
“Like you’re remembering something you forgot you wanted.”
Her hand stills against the counter.
Too close.
Way too close.
Heat creeps up her neck, betraying her before she can control it.
She forces a shrug. “Can’t a girl try to look hot for girls’ night without being accused of running off with the pool boy?”
It almost lands.
Almost.
Jason folds another shirt—hers. Old gym one. Familiar.
Sets it down.
Then he looks at her.
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says.
A beat.
“I just want you to know I see it.”
He holds her gaze.
Doesn’t soften it.
Doesn’t push it.
“I’m not scared of it.”
That’s what knocks the air out of her.
Not jealousy.
Not control.
Permission.
She could say it now.
Any version of the truth.
I don’t know what this is.
I feel like I’m waking up and I don’t know where that goes.
I’m scared of what happens next.
Instead—
she smiles.
Sharp. Controlled.
“Noted, Dr. Freud.”
Jason lets it go.
He knows she’s deflecting.
He doesn’t chase her.
He gathers the laundry, sets it aside, rinses a cup at the sink.
The silence resets.
Comfortable again.
Dangerously normal.
Her phone buzzes.
Perfect timing.
“I should go,” she says quickly. “Rachel will roast me if I’m late.”
Jason dries his hands.
Steps toward her.
Close enough that she smells him—cedar soap, clean, familiar.
Grounding.
He doesn’t make a big moment out of it.
Just hooks a finger into her coat lapel.
Straightens it.
Tucks a piece of hair behind her ear.
“Have fun,” he says.
A beat.
“And if you run off to Scottsdale, at least text me first.”
She almost laughs.
Doesn’t.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she says.
This time—
true.
He leans in.
Kisses her forehead.
Slow. Intentional.
His hand rests at the back of her neck.
Warm.
Anchoring.
“Good,” he murmurs.
A pause.
“I kind of like you this way.”
That lands deeper than everything else.
She doesn’t answer.
She just leaves.
The door shuts behind her, cold air cutting through the heat still sitting in her skin.
She fumbles with her keys, hands not quite steady.
Gets into the car.
The windshield fogs, then clears.
She catches herself in the mirror.
Red.
Flushed.
Not the same woman who walked in that kitchen this morning.
His words echo.
You seem awake.
I see it.
I’m not scared of it.
She almost texts him.
I’m not mad.
Thank you for seeing me.
She doesn’t.
Instead, she shifts into reverse.
Watches the house shrink in the mirror.
And lets the feeling stay.
Her hands shake the entire drive.
?
She’s late, which is a joke—everyone’s late, always, because the last hour before a Mom Club event is a war zone of missing ballet shoes, uncanceled Amazon subscriptions, and the creeping certainty that your four-year-old will use your full legal name in public at the worst possible moment.
But Brielle still manages to arrive fifteen minutes after Come in whenever! and feel like the least put-together person there.
She’s balancing a half-eaten cheese board (gouged by her own toddler in transit), a bottle of Trader Joe’s red, and a baby wipe trailing from her sneaker like a flag of surrender.
She barely makes it past the entryway before Claire clocks her from the couch—one leg up, phone in hand, hair perfect.
Claire lifts two fingers in greeting, then tilts her head toward Brielle’s shoe. “Bold of you to go full grocery-run chic when Rach said cocktail casual.”
Brielle snorts, dumping the cheese board onto the nearest surface. “I figured someone needed to lower the bar.”
She tries to kick off the wipe.
Fails.
Rachel glides in from the kitchen, glossy and composed, carrying wine glasses and a fistful of cheese knives. “Don’t sweat it. Last time Harper wore gym clothes and nobody died.”
“Excuse you,” Harper says from an armchair, closing her laptop and giving Brielle a slow once-over. “I see you went with fresh-from-cardio and ready-to-get-wrecked.”
“On theme,” Brielle says, but there’s no bite in it.
She’s too aware of the room.
It feels… charged.
Like everyone showed up ready for something, even if no one will say what.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket—home, probably—but she ignores it.
The living room hums with laughter that sits just a little too close to something else. The coffee table is chaos—snacks, spills, half-finished drinks. Naomi perches at the edge of a stool, composed as always, notebook set neatly beside her glass.
Brielle barely sits before Claire launches.
“Okay, real question—are any of you actually having sex with your husbands, or are we just cosplaying as couples at this point?”
Rachel laughs into her wine. “I told Kyle if he wants to get laid before Easter, he can start by staying awake past nine.”
Harper smirks. “You make it sound like he has to unlock it.”
“Exactly,” Rachel says. “Maybe he should earn it.”
Laughter rolls through the room.
Brielle drinks, lets the wine burn a little, then says, “What if you want the main storyline but the game’s permanently glitched?”
Claire perks up immediately. “Oh my god, is Jason back on headsets? I thought you banned Fortnite after the incident.”
Brielle shakes her head, smiling, but the truth sits just behind it.
I want him to want me, and sometimes it feels like we’re not even in the same place.
She doesn’t say that.
“Just… grown-up Tetris,” she shrugs. “You fit it in where it works.”
Rachel leans forward. “Missionary with one eye on the baby monitor?”
“Kinky,” Harper says.
Naomi sets her glass down with a soft, deliberate click.
“You all joke about it,” she says calmly, “but what if you actually miss it? Not sex—the part where someone touches you and it’s not because you have food in your hair.”
The room stills.
Brielle feels it hit.
That exact nerve.
She thinks of Jason. His voice earlier. You seem awake. I see it.
She could say it.
She doesn’t.
“Look,” she says instead, deflecting, “if anyone wants to sign up for a cuddle swap, my husband is accepting applications. Just be prepared for detailed feedback.”
Claire laughs. “You’d never survive not winning.”
Rachel refills her glass, hand just slightly unsteady. “But seriously—what do you do when you don’t want it? Or when everything just… doesn’t line up?”
Naomi doesn’t hesitate. “You do it because you want to want it. Sometimes the wanting comes later.”
Harper, quieter now: “Or you fake it and remember when it didn’t feel like work.”
Silence.
It stretches longer than it should.
Then Brielle says it.
She doesn’t plan to.
“What if you just want… more?”
Naomi’s eyes snap to hers.
“Define more,” Claire says, but it’s already slipping back toward humor.
Brielle shrugs, but her voice doesn’t quite follow.
“I don’t know. Just… something you actually look forward to. Something that makes you feel—”
She stops.
They’re all looking at her.
“—not invisible.”
Rachel exhales sharply. “Jesus, Brielle.”
Harper nods once. “You’re not the only one.”
Something shifts.
Not louder.
Quieter.
More honest.
Claire reaches for another bottle. “Okay, great, more wine. I refuse to have a breakthrough sober.”
They laugh again.
But it’s different now.
Less armor.
More… want.
The night keeps going—stories, complaints, laughter layered over exhaustion. The usual rhythm.
But Brielle notices things she hasn’t before.
Naomi watching her.
Harper’s knowing looks.
Rachel’s hand lingering on her shoulder just a second too long.
Maybe it’s always been like this.
Or maybe she’s just finally paying attention.
By midnight, the room has softened—voices lower, music louder, people stretched out in different versions of undone.
Brielle sits at the edge of the couch, phone in her hand.
Jason hasn’t texted again.
She wants to say something.
Brielle
You were right.
I feel different.
I don’t want to ignore it anymore.
She types.
Deletes.
Types again.
Brielle
Still awake.
See you soon.
She sends it.
Lets the phone rest in her lap.
Across the room, Claire lifts her glass.
“To more.”
Brielle smiles.
This time, it isn’t a performance.
?
It happens the way it always does—somewhere in the lull, after the charcuterie has been picked clean and the wine count has tipped past reasonable.
Someone says it, casual as anything:
“Okay. Pact check.”
This time it’s Harper, voice low, almost bored.
A beat—then groans.
“Ugh, really?”
“I thought we retired that.”