Maybe some cleaning

Emily padded barefoot into the living room, her nursing tank clinging gently to her sides as she gathered a half-folded blanket from the couch and tossed it over the backrest. Her eyes swept the room—not messy, just lived-in. Diaper caddy by the armchair. Two sippy cups on the shelf. A baby sock under the coffee table. Nothing urgent, but her hands needed something to do.

She moved into the hallway next, wiping a finger along the narrow console table. Dust. Not much, but enough to irritate her, enough to make her duck into the kitchen for the all-purpose spray and a rag.

Spritz. Wipe. Repeat. Corners, baseboards, doorframes.

She opened the closet for more towels, and the scent of cedar and old linen wafted out. Neat stacks. Baskets labeled. But near the bottom, half tucked behind a plastic tub of Christmas lights, something caught her eye.

A small cardboard box. Worn at the corners, lid slightly ajar.

Not hers.

She crouched, curious, pulling it free with both hands.

There was a post-it note stuck to the top, its ink faded: “Garage — old stuff.” Jason’s handwriting. But it wasn’t garage gear inside.

The lid lifted easily.

On top: a bundle of old photos, rubber-banded together. Not family. Not Chloe. Not even Jason. Just faces. Women. Some in lingerie. Some nude. Some... more explicit.

Emily’s breath caught.

They weren’t porn. Not exactly. These were polaroids. Personal. Intimate. One had a date scrawled on the corner—2009—and a lipstick kiss in the corner.

She dug deeper.

Under the photos was a small camcorder. The kind from the early 2000s, dusty but intact. Its battery light blinked faintly red when she touched it, like it wanted to wake up. Her hand hovered.

And under that?

A notebook.

Black leather cover. Soft. Her fingers shook slightly as she opened it.

Page after page. Names. Dates. Descriptions. Notes. One name repeated. Two stars next to it.

The handwriting was Jason’s.

Her stomach flipped. She sat back on her heels, the box open in front of her, the room suddenly very still.

Was this a kink? A history? A trophy case?

Whatever it was... she’d never seen it before.

And she’d never felt this strange bloom of heat—half outrage, half something else—creep up her chest quite like this.

The camcorder blinked again.

Still had a charge.

Just enough.