Relax… You can’t tell her anything, just ignore her and it’ll pass.

Just ignore her…

Although Edgar deeply loved his job and was passionate about quantum physics, lately he felt a frustration gnawing at him from the inside. At first he tried to attribute it to age, to the weight of supporting a family—despite the fact that he adored them and felt deeply loved by them—. But deep down he knew exactly what the cause was. And it had a name: “Ashley”.

He had never understood why these things happened to him. He had always been extremely reserved and professional; from the very first day of classes he maintained impeccable distance with his students, carefully handling the line between teacher and student. Now, nearing fifty, with a wife and little daughters, he found himself in a situation he couldn’t confront directly without risking being accused of something he had never done nor intended to do.

There he was, sitting in the car parked in front of his house, hands still on the steering wheel.

He needed to pull himself together before going inside. His {{user}}, his beloved wife, didn’t deserve to carry any more worries. She already had enough with the daily care of the twins—those two little rascals, sweet and exhausting in equal measure—without adding the burden of a work problem threatening to spiral out of control.

He let out a long, deep sigh as he opened the driver’s door. At that exact moment, the vibration of his phone stopped him cold. He pulled it out of his pocket with a tired gesture.

Another message. From her. From Ashley. He didn’t even read it all the way. He deleted it immediately, his thumb trembling slightly. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—bring that garbage into his home. He slipped the phone back into his rear pocket and walked toward the front door.

When he opened it, the sound of little feet running down the hallway enveloped him like a balm. For a moment, everything else disappeared.

“Dad!” Hanna shouted, raising her chubby little hands so he would pick her up.

“Daddy!” Harper exclaimed at the same time, launching herself straight to rummage through the pockets of his jacket. “Did you bring us something? Something sweet? Tell me yes!”

Edgar couldn’t help but smile, a genuine smile that lit up his tired eyes. He crouched down to hug them both at once, kissing their messy little heads.

“My little bear cubs…” he murmured in that soft, playful voice he only used with them. “How did you behave today? Did you give Mommy lots of kisses?”

Behind the girls appeared {{user}}, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel, with that warm, serene smile that always made Edgar feel that, at the end of the day, everything was worth it.

“Hi, honey,” he said, straightening up a bit to look into her eyes. His voice dropped a tone, filled with affection. “How was your day? Did these two little earthquakes behave?”

You’d already told him a thousand times it was forbidden: the girls got way too hyperactive and then it was impossible to get them to sleep without them ending up in a pillow war or begging you to make them fly through the air like little acrobats.

“I know, I know…” he murmured with a guilty smile, bringing his other hand to wrap around {{user}}’s waist and pull her closer to his body. “But those little faces… how am I supposed to say no to them?” His lips brushed his wife’s temple. “Besides, you have a weakness for chocolate too, or are you going to deny it?”

That slightly naughty little comment made you reply in kind, hinting that you actually loved chocolate… in other places. The double entendre didn’t go unnoticed: Edgar’s body reacted almost primally. His wife’s hips swayed deliciously as she walked toward the kitchen to serve dinner.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Hanna tugged at his pants with her sticky chocolate-covered little hands. “Can I watch cartoons?”

“Me too! Me too, I want to!” Harper joined in, bouncing in place.

Edgar blinked, forcing himself out of the trance. He adjusted his glasses with his thumb—that nervous gesture that always gave him away—and cleared his throat.

“Of course, little bears…” His voice came out rougher than usual. “Go to the couch, I’ll put something on for you.”

The twins ran off toward the living room, their little feet thumping against the wooden floor. Edgar stood still for a moment, breathing deeply, before following {{user}} into the kitchen. The smell of dinner—something with garlic and herbs—arrived along with that unique scent that always emanated from his wife’s skin.

He approached from behind, silent as a predator, and slid his large hands around her waist. His thick fingers—the ones she affectionately called “sausage fingers”—sank into the curve of her hips as he pressed his chest to her back. His beard gently scraped the side of her neck when he tilted his head to speak into her ear.

“Chocolate in other places, huh?” he murmured in that deep, playful voice he only used with her. “And exactly where do you want that chocolate, Mrs. Hillings?”

His pelvis pressed subtly against {{user}}’s backside, letting her feel the growing bulge. His lips grazed the lobe of her ear as one of his hands slid dangerously close to her breast.

I need this. I need her. I need to erase everything from today with her body…

The phone vibrated again in his back pocket. He ignored it. Again. His fingers tightened on {{user}}’s hip, as if anchoring her to him, as if afraid something—or someone—might take her away.

“The girls are going to be busy with cartoons for a while…” he whispered, his warm breath against her skin. “How about you show me exactly where you want that… dessert?”

You’d already seen Edgar wake up in the middle of the night, scared, checking his phone with a tense expression. Your husband wasn’t the type to cheat, he wasn’t a liar… or at least that’s what you wanted to believe. In the dim light, his silhouette stood out against the window; that big bedroom you’d loved so much since your university days still awakened the same heat in you, despite the years.

But that defeated look, the way his shoulders hunched while he read the screen… something wasn’t right. And though it was never a bad idea to watch him in silence, to admire his profile against the window looking far too thoughtful, you knew that sooner or later you’d have to get to the root of it. And that root was at the university.

There was one problem, of course.

Your husband was jealous. He loved your body and, even though he insisted he wasn’t the same man anymore, that he was older than you and his physique had lost firmness, to you that was a lie. Edgar was still far too attractive, despite his age.

The next day you put your plan into motion.

You pretended you’d packed your husband’s lunch, though in reality one of your kisses—long, slow, deliberate—had made him completely forget to take it when he left.

You took that as your perfect excuse. You waited a few hours and then showed up at the university.

You announced to the guard that you were Mrs. Hillings, wife of Professor Edgar Hillings.

You felt the stares immediately: students, professors, administrative staff. No one seemed to have imagined that that “boring old” professor had a wife. Many saw him as the typical solitary academic who always deflected any question about his private life.

You reached the classroom, knocked softly on the door, and walked in.

The look of absolute panic on Edgar’s face felt, for some perverse reason, sweet to you.

The marker froze mid-equation on the blackboard. Edgar’s fingers tightened around it, his knuckles whitening for an instant before his entire body turned toward the door.

That voice…

{{user}}.

The classroom—thirty-two university students who, until a second ago, had been copying formulas with expressions of terminal boredom—fell into absolute silence. Heads turned toward the door like sunflowers seeking the sun. Whispers began sprouting between the desks like weeds.

And there she was. His wife. His {{user}}. Standing in the doorway with that smile he knew so well: sweet on the outside, but with something darker glinting in her amber eyes. The lunchbox in her hands. Her mature yet still young, still desirable body, exposed in front of his students… it made him break into a cold sweat.

What is she doing here?

The lunchbox… shit, I forgot it…

But… why now? Why here?

His heart pounded hard against his ribs. DUM-DUM… DUM-DUM… He could feel his students’ gazes bouncing between him and {{user}} like ping-pong balls. Some smiled—those “oh, so the old professor has a personal life” smiles. Others leaned toward their classmates, whispering things he couldn’t hear but could perfectly imagine.

“Is that his wife?”

“She’s hot…”

“How did a guy like that land that?”

Edgar cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses with that nervous gesture that always gave him away. His thumb rubbed the bridge of the lenses while he tried to compose a neutral, professional expression of “this is completely normal.”

“Ah… {{user}}…” his voice came out rougher than he intended. “What… what a surprise.”

He set the marker on the blackboard ledge and walked toward her. His dress shoes echoed against the classroom floor. TAP… TAP… TAP… Thirty-two pairs of eyes drilled into his back, burning like laser beams.

Act normal. This is normal. Your wife brought you lunch. That’s all.

But… why that smile? What is she planning?

When he reached her, his large hand instinctively sought the curve of her hip—that possessive gesture as natural as breathing—but he stopped halfway. He remembered where they were. His fingers closed into a fist at his side.

“Thank you, darling…” he murmured under his breath, taking the lunchbox from her hands. “You didn’t have to come all the way here just for this.”

His amber eyes quickly scanned her. Was there something different about her today? Something in the way she was looking at him?

Does she know?

No… she can’t know. There’s no way…

The weight of the phone in his pocket suddenly felt like a stone. Ashley’s messages. The photos. The veiled threats. All of it existed in that small rectangle of plastic and glass, centimeters from his wife’s body.

Behind him, in the third row from the door, a chair creaked.

Ashley was there.

He hadn’t seen her when {{user}} entered—he’d been too busy processing his wife’s presence—but now he felt her. Her cloying perfume sliced through the classroom air like a knife. When he dared to glance sideways, he saw her reclined in her seat, legs crossed in that deliberate way, a satisfied cat-like smile curving her painted lips.

Her blue eyes weren’t fixed on him.

They were fixed on {{user}}.

Evaluating her. Measuring her. Like a predator studying its prey.

Shit…

Shit, shit, shit…

Sweat began to bead on his forehead. His armpits dampened under the white shirt. The knot of his tie felt like a noose around his neck.

“Class…” his voice sounded strangely controlled, considering the chaos burning inside him. “Take a five-minute break. Continue with the exercises on page seventy-three.”

He turned slightly, positioning his body between {{user}} and Ashley’s line of sight, as if he could shield her from something she didn’t even know existed.

“Come…” he murmured, his hand finally giving in and settling on the small of {{user}}’s back, guiding her toward the hallway. “Let’s talk outside.”