The living room was a cocoon of dim amber light, the kind that made everything feel heavier, more intimate, even when the air was thick with unspoken tension. The faint hum of the TV droned on in the background, some mindless reality show neither of them was watching. Empty wine glasses sat abandoned on the coffee table, their rims stained with the ghosts of a merlot they’d shared an hour ago—back when Brooke had still held out hope for a spark of connection. Now, she sprawled across the couch, one leg dangling over the armrest, her phone glowing in her hand as she scrolled aimlessly through social media. Her mind, though, wasn’t on the curated perfection of Instagram. It was on Daniel. His last text, sent just before dinner, lingered in her thoughts like a forbidden sip of something dangerously sweet: *“Thinking about you in ways I shouldn’t. Call me if you’re bored.”*
Across the room, Adrian hunched over his laptop, the blue light casting sharp shadows across his tired face. His fingers tapped away at the keyboard, the rhythm as relentless as it was indifferent. He hadn’t looked at her in twenty minutes. Not really. Not in the way that used to make her skin prickle with anticipation. Brooke let out a long, deliberate sigh, loud enough to cut through the monotony of his typing. Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. She shifted, letting her silk robe slip just a little higher on her thigh, the fabric whispering against her skin. Still nothing.
“You okay?” Adrian mumbled, his voice flat, his eyes never leaving the screen.
Brooke rolled her eyes, her lips curling into a smirk that was equal parts irritation and amusement. “Oh, I’m just peachy, darling. Can’t you tell? I’m practically glowing with all the attention I’m getting over here.”
He grunted, a half-hearted sound that might’ve been a laugh if it had any life in it. “Sorry, babe. Just gotta finish this report. Big meeting tomorrow.”
“Big meeting,” she echoed, her tone dripping with mockery as she sat up, tossing her phone onto the cushion beside her. “That’s what you said last week. And the week before. Tell me, Adrian, does your boss at least buy you dinner before screwing you over with all these late nights? Or is the laptop your real lover now?”
That got his attention. He finally looked up, his brow furrowing as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Very funny, Brooke. I’m trying to keep us afloat here. You know that.”
“Oh, I know,” she shot back, leaning forward, her dark eyes glinting with a mix of challenge and mischief. “I also know that I’m sitting here, looking like a goddamn dessert, and you’re too busy licking spreadsheets to notice. When did you turn into such a bore, hmm? Where’s the man who used to pin me against the wall before we even made it to the couch?”
Adrian’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something—guilt, maybe—crossing his face before he masked it with a tired sigh. “I’m exhausted, okay? It’s not personal. Can we just… not do this right now?”
“Not do this?” Brooke laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound that sliced through the room. She stood, crossing her arms, her robe slipping just enough to reveal the curve of her shoulder. “Sweetheart, we haven’t *done* anything in weeks. I’m starting to think I should trade you in for a vibrator. At least that would pay attention to me.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, closing his laptop with a soft click. “That’s not fair, and you know it. I’m trying, Brooke. I really am.”
“Trying,” she repeated, her voice softer now but no less cutting. She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the hardwood, until she was standing over him. “Trying used to look a lot different, Adrian. It used to look like your hands on me, your mouth on mine, not… this.” She gestured at the laptop with a flick of her wrist, as if it were a rival she could slap. “I miss us. Don’t you?”
For a moment, he looked up at her, his hazel eyes searching hers, and she thought—hoped—he might reach for her. Might pull her down onto his lap and remind her why she’d fallen for him in the first place. But then his phone buzzed on the armrest, a sharp, intrusive sound, and his gaze dropped to it instinctively. Another work call. Another excuse.
Brooke stepped back, her laugh bitter now, devoid of humor. “Go ahead, answer it. Wouldn’t want to keep your other mistress waiting.”
“Brooke—” he started, but she was already turning away, waving a dismissive hand over her shoulder as she headed for the hallway.
“Forget it. I’m going to bed. Maybe I’ll dream of someone who actually gives a damn.”
She didn’t wait for his response, didn’t look back to see if her words had landed. Her heart was pounding, a mix of anger and something deeper, something like grief, as she climbed the stairs. The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, and she sank onto the edge of the mattress, her fingers curling into the sheets. Her mind was a mess, a tangle of frustration and longing. She thought of Adrian downstairs, probably already back to his precious report, oblivious to the storm brewing inside her. And then, unbidden, her thoughts drifted to Daniel. His voice, low and teasing, echoed in her memory: *“Call me if you’re bored.”* God, she was more than bored. She was starving—for attention, for heat, for the kind of reckless passion she hadn’t felt in months.
Her phone sat on the nightstand, its screen dark but tempting. She bit her lip, guilt clawing at her even as a thrill raced down her spine. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. But as the silence of the house pressed in around her, as the ache for something—someone—grew sharper, Brooke couldn’t help but wonder if a single text, just one, would be enough to ease the hunger. Or if it would only make everything burn hotter.
She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, torn between the man downstairs who’d once set her world on fire and the man on the other end of a message who was all too eager to strike the match. The conflict churned within her, a dangerous, delicious storm waiting to break.
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