Cole and Derek become constants in our house, arriving almost daily, determined to help in whatever ways they can.
Derek takes over the kitchen completely, showing up with grocery bags before I've finished my morning coffee, filling the refrigerator with fresh vegetables and lean proteins.
"Sit down," he says, nudging me toward the table with gentle insistence. "I've got this."
"Derek, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to. I want to." He starts unpacking ingredients. "When's the last time you ate a real meal? And coffee doesn't count."
I try to remember and can't, which apparently shows on my face.
"That's what I thought." He points at the chair with mock sternness. "Sit and rest. You're running yourself into the ground, and that doesn't help anyone."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine—you've lost weight you didn't need to lose, you have dark circles under your eyes, and you're living on caffeine and worry."
I want to argue, but the exhaustion wins and I sink into the chair, watching Derek move through my kitchen like he belongs there, like this is his domain now.
"Ryan's lucky to have you," I say quietly.
Derek pauses in his vegetable chopping to look at me with those warm brown eyes that always seem to understand more than they should. "He's lucky to have you, Grace. Don't forget that."
I don't believe him, but I nod anyway.
Cole handles physical therapy. I watch from the doorway as he guides Ryan through exercises. Supporting his weight during walking practice, holding him steady when his legs threaten to buckle.
"Come on, man. Three more steps."
"I can't." Ryan's voice strains with defeat. "My legs won't—"
"Your legs are fine. Your head's the problem." Cole adjusts his grip, redistributing Ryan's weight. "Three more steps. Then we're done for the day."
Ryan grits his teeth and takes one painful step, then another, then a third.
"There it is." Cole grins with genuine pride. "Told you."
"I hate you," Ryan mutters without heat.
"No, you don't. You love me. I'm your favorite person."
"You're the worst person I know."
"And yet here I am, holding your sorry ass upright." Cole helps him back to the wheelchair with practiced ease. "Same time tomorrow?"
Ryan sighs with resignation. "Do I have a choice?"
"Nope."
They're wonderful people, true friends who show up every single day without complaint or expectation. And I am a terrible wife, because I can't stop watching Cole with an intensity that frightens me.
I notice everything—the way his shirt rides up when he lifts Ryan, exposing a strip of tanned stomach that makes my mouth go dry.
The flex of his biceps as he supports my husband's weight, muscles moving under skin in ways that make me imagine those arms around me instead.
The veins running down his forearms like rivers I want to trace with my tongue until I reach his fingers.
His low laugh echoes through the house long after he's gone, and his scent, clean sweat and something woodsy, lingers in rooms, on furniture, in the air I breathe deeper when he passes.
I find myself leaning closer when he talks just to catch more of that scent, watching his mouth form words I barely hear because I'm too focused on the shape of his lips.
The fantasies consume me now with relentless persistence. During the day while Cole works with Ryan in the living room, my mind wanders to increasingly dark places.
I imagine him pressing me against the kitchen counter, his mouth hungry on my neck while his hands shove my dress up my thighs with desperate urgency.
I imagine him in my bed, that perfect body hovering over me, blue eyes dark with want as he spreads my legs and settles between them like he belongs there.
I imagine his fingers sliding where Ryan's used to be but slower, more deliberate, drawing sounds from my throat I've never made because no one's ever touched me like that.
I shake my head violently, forcing myself to focus. But it doesn't help—the images return again and again with increasing vividness.
One night, I can't take it anymore.
Ryan sleeps deeply, the house silent around us, and I stand in the bathroom gripping the edge of the sink while trying to breathe through the ache between my legs that won't subside no matter what I do.
I look at myself in the mirror—flushed cheeks, dark eyes, a woman on the edge of something dangerous and inevitable.
"Don't," I whisper desperately to my reflection. "Don't do this."
But my hand is already moving, sliding beneath the waistband of my pajamas and finding the wetness that's been there all day.
I close my eyes and Cole's face fills my mind immediately—that confident smirk, those blue eyes burning into mine with unmistakable hunger.
I imagine him behind me, pressed against my back while his breath comes hot on my neck as his hand replaces mine.
"You've been thinking about this, haven't you?" His voice in my head is low and rough with desire. "Thinking about me while lying next to him."
"Yes," I breathe into the empty bathroom.
"Such a bad girl. Show me how much you want it."
My fingers move faster, circling and stroking with increasing desperation, building toward something I need more than my next breath.
I imagine him inside me—deep and stretching me in ways Ryan never did, his hips snapping against mine with force, his hands gripping me hard enough to leave marks I'd treasure.
"That's it. Let go for me. I want to hear you come apart."
The pressure builds and coils tight in my belly, and I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood to keep from crying out. His name echoes in my head like a prayer: Cole, Cole, Cole.
I climax with a strangled gasp, my thighs trembling and back arching as pleasure crashes through me in waves.
For one blinding moment there's nothing but pure overwhelming release—the satisfaction I've been craving for weeks finally achieved.
Then silence falls, and the fantasy dissolves into nothing. I'm alone in my bathroom with my hand between my legs, panting and shaking from orgasming to thoughts of my husband's best friend.
Guilt crashes through me with the force of ice water in my veins.
I yank my hand away and turn on the faucet, scrubbing my fingers until the skin turns red then raw, as if I can wash away what just happened.
"What is wrong with you?" I hiss at myself viciously. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
I turn off the faucet and dry my hands, forcing myself to look in the mirror one more time. A stranger stares back—I don't recognize the woman I'm becoming, don't know how to stop, and the worst part is—don't know if I want to.
The shame and guilt and self-loathing—none of it is stronger than the wanting that consumes me more with each passing day.
I turn off the bathroom light and slip back into bed beside my husband, who doesn't stir or reach for me or know what I've just done. The canyon of cold sheets stretches between us, growing wider every night.
I stare at the ceiling and tell myself it won't happen again, that I'll do better, be better, be the wife Ryan needs me to be.
But I already know I'm lying.
I can't stop.