It started with a look.
Not just any look—a lingering, heat-soaked, boundary-breaking look. One that sent something electric crawling down my spine and pooling low in my belly.
I told myself it was a mistake. That I imagined it.
But the way Marianne, my wife’s mother, watched me from across the kitchen that night said otherwise.
We had only been living at her place for a week. Just until our new apartment was ready. Emma and I were both grateful—Marianne’s house was beautiful, tucked in the outskirts of town, quiet and green and smelling like roses and warm bread.
Emma worked longer shifts than I did. She was a nurse, and nights often swallowed her whole. I had a remote tech job, which meant I was home most of the time—sometimes alone with Marianne.
Not that I minded. She was easy to
