January 20, 2026.
We’d managed almost two weeks of “normal.”
No public risks. No office tables or half-closed blinds.
Just nights at his house when Mia was out, mornings where I’d sneak in before she woke. Dinners he cooked. Movies on the couch with my feet in his lap. Slow, lazy s*x in his bed that felt less like stealing time and more like claiming it.
The jealousy had quieted too—not gone, but banked. A low simmer instead of a flare.
Until tonight.
Mia had planned a small get-together at a downtown lounge—birthday drinks for one of her work friends. Low-key, she’d said. Just ten people. Cocktails, music, no big deal.
She’d begged me to come. “You’ve been so busy lately. I miss you.”
Guilt won.
Damien knew. We’d talked about it.
“Go,” he’d said that morning, kissing me slow in
