The house was quiet. Too quiet. The laptop sat open on the kitchen island, screen gone black, but I could still see myself on that footage. Hands on Angela, mouth on Angela, fucking her like a man who’d finally gone completely off the rails.
I had lost my mind. That was the only explanation.
I grabbed the whisky from the cabinet—cheap stuff, the bottle we kept for cooking—and poured two fingers into a glass. I didn't even drink it, just held it while I watched my hand shake.
How did this happen?
I knew how it happened. That was the worst part. I could trace every step, every choice, every moment I should have stopped and didn't.
It started with texts. Angela asking if Elena had signed off on an order, if she was free for something, then sending another message, then another, until it stopped being about work at all. She started venting about Bryan, about the drinking and the fighting and how he didn’t understand her anymore. And I’d listened because that’s what I do. That’s who I am.
I'm the guy who helps. The guy who shows up. The guy who became a cop because he wanted to be one of the good ones.
So when Angela started opening up, what was I supposed to do? Shut her down? Tell her to deal with her own problems? She was Elena's boss, Elena's friend. She was struggling. And I thought—I really thought—I was just being supportive.
But part of me knew. Even then, part of me knew I was crossing a line.
I didn’t tell Elena about the texts or about how often Angela and I had started talking. I didn’t mention the late calls when things with Bryan got bad. I kept all of it separate, told myself it was better that way, that I didn’t want Elena worrying about Angela’s drama when she was already picking up the slack at the clinic.
That was bullshit. I knew it was bullshit even while I was telling myself it wasn't.
And then came the night Angela called me from that bar. Crying, drunk, saying she and Bryan had had a huge fight and she couldn't drive home and she didn't know who else to call.
I should have hung up. I should have told her to call a cab or call literally anyone else. I should have told Elena what was going on instead of pretending it wasn’t my problem.
Instead, I grabbed my keys and went.
I found her in the parking lot, mascara running, shaking. I got her in the car and we just... talked. For over an hour, sitting there in the dark, her telling me everything. How lonely she was, how Bryan didn't see her anymore, how she felt like she was disappearing.
And somewhere in there, I started talking too. About how things with Elena had felt different lately. How the baby stuff had taken over everything. How sometimes I wondered if she even wanted me anymore or just wanted what I could give her.
I didn't mean it. Not really. Elena and I were fine, we were good.
But I said it anyway. And Angela looked at me like she understood, like she was the only one who understood.
That's when she touched my hand.
Just her fingers on mine, light and tentative. And I… I should have pulled back, said something about how it was late and she should get home and we should never do this again.
But I didn't.
I didn't pull back.
I looked at her—eyes wet, lips parted, leaning closer—and I let it happen. Let her kiss me, then let myself kiss her back. She tasted like wine and salt from crying, and I told myself to stop, told myself this was insane, but my hands were already in her hair and she was climbing over the console and then she was in my lap and I wasn't thinking about anything anymore.
That was the thing. When I was with her, I didn't have to think.
There was no pressure, no ovulation charts, no careful scheduling around fertile windows. It was just heat and skin and the rush of something new, something that wanted me without conditions or calendars.
The second time was at the clinic. Elena was home waiting for me and I told her I had paperwork. Instead I was pressingAngela against the counter, her legs wrapped around me, both of us frantic and breathless and stupid. I remember the way the overhead cabinet rattled. The voice in my head screaming that this was Elena's place, Elena's room, Elena's life I was destroying.
I didn't stop.
The third time, I brought condoms. Planned it, told myself it was just being responsible, but I knew what it really meant. This had stopped being a mistake. This was a choice I’d decided to keep making.
And the whole time—the whole fucking time—Elena was sending me photos of ovulation tests. Heart emojis. Talking about baby names and nursery colors and the future we were building together.
I thought about that morning and the photo she'd sent. I'd stared at it for a full minute before typing back a heart emoji because I didn't know what else to say. Part of me felt the walls closing in. I’d fucked Angela twice that week, so the idea of going home to make a baby with my wife made me want to throw up.
