Morning light spills through the kitchen windows as I stand at the stove, pushing scrambled eggs around a pan I don't remember heating, my mind still foggy from another restless night.
Ryan moves through the house behind me, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood as drawers open and close, zippers sound, and his duffel bag hits the bed with a familiar thud.
We orbit each other carefully this morning, two people pretending last night's disappointment didn't happen, that the negative test in the bathroom trash doesn't exist.
"You want some eggs?" I call out, knowing the answer before he gives it.
"Already ate a protein bar. Thanks though."
"Ryan, a protein bar isn't breakfast."
"It's got twenty grams of protein. That's more than eggs."
I shake my head while the eggs turn rubbery in the pan, scraping them around anyway even though I'm not hungry.
Ryan appears in the kitchen doorway with his bag slung over his shoulder, wearing that old flannel I bought him three Christmases ago.
"You're really going," I say.
"Cole's picking me up in twenty minutes. Derek's meeting us there tonight."
Their tradition that happens every few months—three men disappearing into the woods for a weekend of fishing and beer and terrible jokes around a campfire, no cell service for miles.
I face Ryan with the words already forming on my lips. "Stay. Just this once."
Ryan sighs and sets his bag on the counter, running a hand through his hair. "Grace..."
"I know it's your thing. I know you've been planning it for weeks. But after last night, I just... I don't want to be alone."
He crosses the kitchen and takes my hands in his, his grip warm and familiar and safe, though it doesn't quite reach the cold place inside me. "Hey. Look at me."
I do, meeting his brown eyes that are soft and patient, the eyes of a man who has already made up his mind but wants to soften the blow.
"I need this," he says, squeezing my fingers gently. "Time with the boys. Fresh air. A chance to clear my head and reset."
"Your head needs clearing?"
"Everyone's head needs clearing sometimes." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "Call your friends, make it a girls' night, open some wine."
"I don't want wine. I want my husband."
"You'll have me Sunday night. I promise. Home by dinner."
"And until then?"
"Do whatever women do when they have the house to themselves." He grins. "Face masks. Reality TV. Talk shit about people you went to high school with."
"That's your idea of what women do?"
"Am I wrong?"
I almost smile. "You're not entirely wrong."
"See? I know things." He kisses my forehead. Lets his lips linger there. "Two days, Grace. You'll survive without me for two days."
The doorbell rings before I can protest further, and Ryan grabs his bag with obvious relief. We walk to the front door together, and when Ryan pulls it open, there he is: Cole Jensen, grinning like he owns the world.
I force my expression flat, unimpressed and bored even, the same face I've practiced every time he comes around, though my body betrays me immediately.
He wears a fitted henley that stretches across his chest, the fabric straining against muscles I shouldn't notice but always do.
The sleeves are pushed to his elbows, exposing forearms roped with veins and definition that make my stomach tighten involuntarily.
His dark blond hair falls across his forehead slightly disheveled, like he just rolled out of bed or maybe out of someone else's.
His jeans sit low on narrow hips, and he's built like someone who spends hours perfecting every line—broad shoulders tapering to a solid core, everything about him deliberate and defined and impossible to ignore.
When he moves, confidence rolls off him like heat from pavement on a summer day.
"Morning, Mitchell family," his voice warm and teasing. "Ready to catch some fish and drink some beers?"
"Born ready," Ryan says, clapping Cole's shoulder with easy familiarity. "Derek texted. He's bringing that fancy bourbon his boss gave him."
"Now we're talking. Nothing like getting drunk in the woods like God intended."
Cole's gaze slides to me, and that easy smile widens into something that makes my pulse skip. "Grace. Looking lovely as always."
"Cole." I keep my voice neutral and detached despite the way my skin warms under his attention. "Looking like you slept in your car."
He laughs, a low rich sound that vibrates through my chest and settles somewhere dangerous. "You've always had a sharp tongue."
"Someone has to keep your ego in check."
"And you do it so well." He winks, letting his eyes linger just a beat too long. "Don't worry, I'll bring him back in one piece. Mostly sober. Probably sunburned."
My skin warms, my pulse kicks against my throat. I hate how aware I am of him standing there.
Ryan notices nothing—he never does, has never been jealous, not once in six years together. He trusts Cole completely since they've been best friends since freshman year of college.
If something were wrong, Ryan would know. Wouldn't he?
"You boys behave yourselves," I say, stepping back from the door to create distance between us.
"No promises," Cole replies with that dangerous smile. "Behaving is overrated anyway."
Ryan pulls me into a tight hug, his arms wrapping around me as his lips find my hair. "I love you," he murmurs against me. "I'll call when we're heading back Sunday."
"No cell service, remember?"
"Then I'll text when we hit civilization. Stop worrying."
"Worrying is what I do best."
"I know." He kisses the top of my head once more. "But try anyway. For me."
He releases me and follows Cole down the porch steps, their voices already mixing in easy conversation as they climb into Cole's truck.
I stand in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself, watching them climb into Cole's truck. Cole says something that makes Ryan throw his head back laughing.
I watch them until the truck disappears around the corner and the street falls silent. Until I'm completely alone with the weight of this empty house pressing in around me.
I think about the pregnancy test in the trash, about the disappointment that flashed across Ryan's face before he hid it, about the careful way we danced around each other all morning.
Then I think about Cole—his eyes on mine, the heat that spread through my chest when he smiled, the warmth that still lingers even now like a fever I can't shake.
Shame mixes with something else, something darker that I refuse to name because naming it would make it real.
He's my husband's best friend, practically family, present at our wedding and anniversary dinners and holiday parties.
And I can't stop noticing the way his shirts fit, the way his voice sounds when he says my name, the way he looks at me like he sees right through every wall I've built.
I step back inside and close the door harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the empty rooms like an accusation.
I tell myself it means nothing, that noticing an attractive man doesn't make me a bad wife, that thoughts aren't actions and fantasies aren't betrayal.
I almost believe it. Almost.