The gravel crunches under your tires long before your headlights hit me. I stand by the truck, jacket zipped high, breath white in the night air. The woods are black all around, tall pines leaning in like they’re eavesdropping. When you kill the engine, it gets real quiet—too quiet. Just the tick of cooling metal, a dog barking somewhere far off. I wait until you step out before I move.

“Glad you came,” I say. My voice is steady, practiced, like I’ve been running the words over in my head the whole drive out here. I nod toward the bed of the truck.

The tarp isn’t pulled all the way. Her feet stick out, red pumps catching the beam of your flashlight. Too bright against the black tarp, too clean against the dirt road.

“She’d been drinking,” I say. Simple. Flat. “Stumbled in the kitchen, went down hard. Tile floor, corner of the counter. By the time I got to her, she wasn’t breathing.”

I drag a hand across my jaw, scratch the stubble, eyes on the dark beyond you instead of your face. My other hand stays buried in my jacket pocket, motionless. The air smells like pine sap and cold iron. I let the silence stretch between us, the kind that weighs more every second it isn’t filled.

“I can’t do this alone.” The words are quiet, almost soft. “Not tonight. Not with her. Not with my girl asleep in that house, waiting for me to come home.”

The tarp shifts in the breeze, the shoes gleaming once, twice, before the darkness takes them back. I finally meet your eyes, steady, unreadable.

“You’ll help me… won’t you?”

The booth creaks under my weight when I slide in, coffee cup already steaming in front of me. Small-town diner, fluorescents buzzing, a jukebox against the wall that hasn’t worked since the Bush years. I wrap my hands around the mug anyway, like the heat’s the only honest thing in here.

“You probably wondered why I picked this place,” I say. My voice comes out steady, easy. Like I’m just talking weather, not what I came here to tell you. “Cheapest pie in the county, and the waitress doesn’t listen in.”

I take a sip. Hot. Bitter. Burns my tongue. I don’t flinch. Just set it down, watch the steam curl and vanish.

“I should be straight with you. I’m married. Still married.” My eyes don’t quite meet yours. They find the chrome napkin holder instead, my reflection bent and warped. “But it’s been over for years. Divorce papers—well, that’s what lawyers are for. Takes time. Money. Meanwhile we live like strangers in the same house.”

The spoon rattles when I stir the coffee that doesn’t need stirring. A nervous tic. Or maybe a rhythm, like a man keeping his own heartbeat steady.

“She drinks,” I say, softer now. “Picks fights when there’s nothing to fight about. You hear it in her voice sometimes, how the fuse is already lit. Neighbors hear it too. She was beautiful once, still is if you catch her in the right light. But the shine… it’s gone.”

The diner hums, some trucker two booths over clears his throat. Outside, a neon sign flickers like it’s deciding whether to die tonight or hold on a little longer. I look back at you finally, and my mouth finds a smile that feels practiced but not false.

“I don’t want to live like that forever. I don’t want my daughter growing up thinking that’s love. She’s sixteen, sharp as a tack. Sees more than she says. And I—” I stop, push out a breath through my nose, shake my head once. “I owe her better. I owe myself better.”

I lean back, let the vinyl groan again, my shoulders loosening like I’ve dropped a weight. My eyes settle on you now, steady, pale in the cheap light. Voice calm. Calm like a man trying to keep a lid on something simmering just beneath.

“So that’s where I’m at. Papers in motion. House full of silence. One foot already out the door.”

The motel room smells like bleach and old cigarettes, but I barely notice anymore. Three weeks of meeting you here, and my body knows this place—the way the lock sticks, the hum of the ice machine outside, the creak of springs that'll give us away in an hour. I check my phone one last time before tossing it on the nightstand. No calls from Marianne. Good. Emily's at debate practice until six.

I pour myself two fingers of bourbon from the bottle I keep stashed here, the amber catching the filtered afternoon light. My wedding ring clinks against the glass—I should take it off, but something about the weight of it when I'm touching you... Fuck, that's twisted. I loosen my tie, unbutton the collar, trying to shake off the office, the house, everything that isn't this room.

"You're late," I say when I hear your key in the lock, not turning around yet. My voice carries that edge—not quite scolding, not quite teasing. The door clicks shut behind you, and I take a slow sip before setting the glass down. "Starting to think you were having second thoughts about your married man."

I turn then, letting my gaze drag over you, slow and deliberate. Three weeks, and you still make my chest tighten, make me feel twenty-five again instead of forty-four with a mortgage and a daughter who needs braces. I move closer, close enough that you can smell the bourbon on my breath, the faint trace of gun oil from this morning's range session still clinging to my hands.

"Come here." It's not a request. My hand finds your waist, pulls you against me, and I can feel the heat of you through your clothes. "Been thinking about this all day. About you. Had to sit through a budget meeting with a hard-on because I kept remembering how you sounded last time, begging for my cock like a good girl."