Sarah left at 6:45 a.m., scrubs crisp, coffee in a travel mug. "Lock up if you go out," she called, kissing Mark's cheek. The door shut. The house exhaled.
Mia was already gone—Tommy had shown up at 9:30 the night before, all apologies and new-job promises, begging to take her early for a "daddy-daughter day at the zoo." Lila had packed an overnight bag without a word, kissed Mia's curls, and handed her over. The truck's taillights disappeared down the street, leaving silence so thick Mark could hear his pulse.
Lila stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, sundress swapped for soft cotton shorts and a tank that clung to her unbound breasts. She didn't look at him.
"He'll bring her back tomorrow," she said.
Mark nodded. The clock on the microwave read 9:47. Twenty-four hours. No Sarah. No Mia. No Tommy. Just them.
Lila turned. "I'm going to shower."
He let her go.
The water ran for a long time. Mark paced—kitchen, living room, hallway—every room echoing with the memory of her body. He ended up in the master bedroom, their bedroom, Sarah's perfume still faint on the pillows. He shouldn't. He knew that. But the bed was made, sheets cool, and the thought of Lila in it—*with him*—sent heat pooling low.
The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out. Lila stepped into the hall, towel wrapped loosely, hair dripping down her back. She saw him in the doorway and stopped.
"Mark—"
He crossed the space in two strides, cupped her face, and kissed her. Not rough. Not yet. Slow, deep, like he was memorizing the taste of her. The towel fell. She was naked, skin flushed from the heat, nipples tight. He walked her backward into the bedroom, never breaking the kiss, until her knees hit the bed.
They sank down together. He laid her out on Sarah's side—wrong, filthy, perfect—and kissed every inch of her. Collarbone. Breasts. The soft slope of her stomach. The faint silver lines where Mia had stretched her skin. He lingered there, tongue tracing the marks, until she was writhing.
"Mark, please—"
He spread her thighs, settled between them, and tasted her slow. Licked her open like fruit, savoring every slick fold. She came with a broken cry, hips bucking, fingers tangled in his hair. He didn't stop. Kept licking, softer, then harder, until she was begging—actually begging—her voice cracked open.
He crawled up her body, slid into her in one smooth thrust. She was molten, gripping him like she'd never let go. They moved together, unhurried, the bed creaking in a rhythm older than guilt. He watched her face—eyes closed, lips parted, lost in it—and felt something crack in his chest.
Hours blurred.
**Kitchen counter**—he bent her over it, hands braced beside the coffee maker, taking her from behind while sunlight striped her back. She came with her cheek pressed to the granite, his name muffled against her forearm.
**Living room rug**—she rode him reverse, hands on his knees, breasts bouncing, the TV flickering forgotten baseball highlights across her skin. He gripped her hips, guiding her down hard, again, again, until she shattered.
**Staircase**—halfway up, her back against the wall, one leg hooked over his arm. He fucked her standing, her nails raking his shoulders, the angle so deep she sobbed into his neck.
**Shower**—he pressed her to the tile, water sluicing between them, lifted her legs around his waist and took her slow, kissing her through every thrust. She came with her forehead against his, whispering *don't stop, don't stop*.
They never made it back to the bed until dusk.
Mark carried her there, laid her down, and entered her again—missionary, eye contact, nothing between them but sweat and breath. He moved like he was trying to crawl inside her soul. She wrapped her legs high around his back, heels digging, urging him deeper. When she came this time, it was quiet—just a shudder, a soft *oh*, tears in her eyes.
He followed, spilling inside her with a groan that felt ripped out of him. Stayed buried, kissing her slow, tasting salt.
After, they lay tangled, the room dark except for the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Lila traced idle patterns on his chest.
"Sarah will smell it," she said. "Us. On the sheets."
"I'll wash them."
"She'll know anyway." A pause. "Tommy texted. Wants to keep Mia another night. Says he's got a surprise."
Mark's arm tightened around her. "You trust him?"
"No." She pressed her face to his neck. "But I have to let him try. For her."
He nodded against her hair. The silence stretched, heavy.
Lila rolled on top of him, straddled his hips. He was half-hard already; she sank down slow, taking him in, eyes locked. No rush this time. Just rocking, gentle, a lazy grind that built like a tide.
"I'm not leaving yet," she whispered. "Not tonight."
They moved together until the friction caught, until pleasure crested soft and rolling. She came with a sigh, collapsing onto his chest. He followed, arms locked around her, holding her like the world ended at the edge of the mattress.
Later—much later—she padded naked to the kitchen, returned with two bottles of water. They drank in silence, legs tangled under the covers.
"Tomorrow," she said, "everything goes back."
Mark pulled her close. "Then let's steal tonight."
She smiled against his skin, small and sad and real.
They didn't sleep. Just touched—slow, reverent—until the sky outside turned pearl gray. When the first bird called, Lila kissed him once, soft, and slipped from the bed. She dressed in the hallway, borrowed clothes again. By the time Mark showered and went downstairs, the sheets were in the wash, the house smelled like lemon cleaner, and Lila stood at the stove flipping pancakes like nothing had happened.
But her eyes—when they met his over Mia's empty booster seat—were bruised with everything they'd done.
And everything they couldn't keep.
Monday arrived like a slap.
Mark woke to the sound of the washing machine churning—sheets, towels, every trace of Sunday scrubbed clean. Lila was already in the kitchen, hair in a tight knot, wearing an oversized hoodie that swallowed her curves. She didn't look at him when he came down.
"Coffee's hot," she said, voice flat.
He poured a mug, hands unsteady. The silence between them was new—thick, jagged. Last night she'd been soft under him, whispering his name like a secret. Now she was armor.
The front door burst open at 8:17. Mia barreled in, zoo sticker on her shirt, clutching a stuffed giraffe. "Mommy! Daddy got me ice cream for breakfast!"
Tommy followed, sheepish grin, holding Mia's overnight bag. "Figured one sugar rush wouldn't kill her."
Lila's spine straightened. "You said you'd have her back by nine last night."
"Traffic," Tommy lied smoothly. "And she was having fun. Right, baby?"
Mia nodded, already distracted by cartoons on the tablet Sarah had left charging. Tommy's eyes flicked to Mark, then back to Lila. "Can we talk? Outside?"
Lila hesitated, glanced at Mark. He gave a curt nod. She followed Tommy to the porch.
Through the window, Mark watched them—Tommy gesturing, Lila arms crossed, face unreadable. When Tommy reached for her elbow, she stepped back. Good.
Sarah's car pulled in at 8:45, fresh from her night shift. She kissed Mia, ruffled her hair, then froze in the kitchen doorway. Her gaze swept the room—Lila's rigid posture visible through the glass, Mark gripping his mug like a weapon.
"What's going on?" Sarah asked.
"Nothing," Mark said too quickly.
Sarah's eyes narrowed. She was a nurse; she read vitals in a glance. "You look like hell."
"Long weekend."
She studied him a beat longer, then turned to the porch. "Tommy's still here?"
"Leaving soon."
Sarah went to the window, watched. Tommy was closer now, voice low, pleading. Lila shook her head. Sarah's jaw tightened.
"She okay?" she asked.
"She's fine."
Sarah turned back, something sharp in her eyes. "You'd tell me if she wasn't?"
Mark's throat closed. "Of course."
The porch door opened. Lila stepped in alone, cheeks flushed. Tommy's truck roared to life outside, then faded down the street.
"He wants to try again," Lila said to the room. "Says he's got a place lined up. Wants Mia half the week."
Sarah frowned. "You believe him?"
"I have to let him prove it." Lila's voice was steady, but her hands trembled as she poured orange juice for Mia. "For her."
Sarah nodded slowly. "Okay. But he doesn't step foot in this house again unless I'm here. Understood?"
Lila met her sister's eyes. "Understood."
Sarah kissed Mia again, then headed upstairs. "I'm sleeping till three. Wake me if the world ends."
The second her door clicked shut, Lila sagged against the counter. Mark moved without thinking, arms around her from behind. She stiffened, then melted, just for a second.
"We can't," she whispered. "Not here. Not anymore."
He pressed his forehead to her shoulder. "I know."
But his hands slid under the hoodie anyway, cupping her bare breasts—warm, heavy, nipples peaking against his palms. She gasped, arching into him.
"Mark—"
"Just once," he murmured against her neck. "Quick. Before she wakes."
Lila turned in his arms, eyes dark. "Laundry room. Door locks."
They stumbled through the doorway, mouths fused. He locked it behind them, the click loud in the small space. The dryer hummed, warm air thick with detergent and heat. He lifted her onto the washer, yanked her shorts down. No panties. She was slick already, thighs parting for him.
He dropped to his knees, mouth on her before she could protest. She bit her fist to stay quiet, hips rocking against his tongue. He licked her through one orgasm, then stood, freed himself, and slid home in one thrust.
The washer rocked beneath them, thumping in rhythm with his hips. Lila's legs locked around his waist, nails digging into his back. He took her hard, fast, the need brutal after two days of restraint. She came again, muffling her cry in his shoulder, walls fluttering around him.
He followed with a groan, spilling deep, hips jerking. They stayed locked, panting, the dryer's heat pressing in.
Lila pulled back first. "That was the last time."
Mark searched her face. "You mean it?"
She nodded, eyes wet. "I have to. For Mia. For Sarah."
He helped her down, fixed her clothes. She unlocked the door, stepped out like nothing happened. Mark lingered, staring at the washer still spinning their secret.
---
The week blurred.
Tommy picked Mia up Wednesday, returned her Friday. Sarah worked doubles. Lila avoided Mark's eyes, slept in the guest room with Mia. The house felt haunted.
Saturday morning, Sarah cornered Mark in the garage.
"I found the sheets," she said quietly. "In the trash. Bleach stains. Like someone was hiding something."
Mark's heart stopped. "I spilled wine—"
"On *our* bed?" Sarah's voice was soft, lethal. "You think I'm stupid?"
"Sarah—"
"Tell me it's not her."
He couldn't.
Sarah's eyes filled. "How long?"
"Since she moved in." The truth tasted like ash.
Sarah slapped him. Hard. The sound echoed off the concrete.
"Get out," she whispered. "Pack a bag. Now."
He did.
---
He checked into a motel off the highway, phone blowing up with texts from Sarah—*How could you?*—then nothing. Lila called once, voice shaking.
"Sarah knows. She's making me leave too. Tommy's taking Mia tonight. I'm going with him."
Mark sat on the lumpy bed, world collapsing. "Don't."
"I have to. It's over, Mark."
The line went dead.
---
Three weeks later, a text from an unknown number.
*Lila: I'm late. It's yours. Tommy thinks it's his. Don't call. Just know.*
Mark stared at the screen until it went black.
The knife had fallen.
And it cut clean through everything.