Morning after

The morning light feels harsher than usual. You shuffle into the kitchen, hair still messy, the ghost of last night’s excitement clinging to you. Tom’s already there, leaning against the counter with his coffee. He doesn’t look at you right away — just takes a slow sip and finally says, “Morning, star reporter.”

You hesitate. “Morning.”

He glances over, smirking, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “So, did you and Rob discover the meaning of life in there, or just—” He waves his hand vaguely. “—research methods?”

You roll your eyes, trying for lightness. “We talked. About music. You heard.”

“Oh, I heard plenty,” Tom says, voice edged with that dry humor that means he’s not entirely joking. “Guess the interview section of the article’s coming along nicely.”

You frown. “Tom, don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He smiles, but it’s thin. “I’m just impressed. You really throw yourself into the work, huh?”

You fold your arms, the defensive gesture automatic. “It’s part of the job.”

“Right,” he says, nodding slowly, setting down his mug. “Part of the job.” Then, quieter, “Lucky guy, though.”

That last line lands heavier than the others, the sarcasm melting into something else. You want to say something — to explain, to defend, to tease him back — but the words get stuck.

Tom sighs, shaking his head as if to brush it all off. “Forget it. I’m being a jerk.” He forces a grin, lighter now. “Guess I just wasn’t ready for chapter two of your field study to happen ten feet from where I sleep.”

You can’t help a small, guilty laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he says, half a smile ghosting across his face. “But I make good coffee.”

You take the mug he offers, fingers brushing his for the briefest second — a peace offering, maybe. The coffee’s too hot, too bitter, but it gives you something to hold while the silence settles between you.

Tom leans back against the counter, pretending to scroll through his phone, but you can tell he’s still thinking about it — about Rob. About what he heard, or what he thinks he heard.

You glance at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You’re not still mad, are you?”

He snorts softly. “Mad? No. I mean, who wouldn’t want to watch their wife… become the next Nellie Bly — with bonus sound effects.”

“Tom.”

He looks up then, really looks — eyes soft but tired. “I’m kidding,” he says, though his tone doesn’t sell it. “Mostly.”

You exhale. “It’s not—” You stop, realizing there’s no version of that sentence that won’t sound like a lie.

He saves you the trouble. “I know. It’s for the article.” His voice is quiet now, more resignation than sarcasm. “I just didn’t realize how good you’d be at disappearing into it.”

You stare at the dark swirl in your cup, the steam rising in lazy curls. You want to tell him he’s wrong — that you haven’t disappeared, that you’re still right here. But there’s a part of you that’s not sure anymore.

Because when you close your eyes, it’s not your husband’s hand you feel — it’s the weight of a man’s gaze under dim light, the sound of laughter tangled with a record spinning slow.

You take another sip of coffee, forcing a smile. “It’s going to make a good story, Tom.”

He nods. “Yeah. Just… make sure you’re the one writing it.”

Steam curls from the bathroom as you twist the tap, testing the temperature with your hand. You can feel Tom’s eyes on you from the doorway — that blend of amusement and something heavier underneath.

“You’re really not going to be late for once, huh?” he says, leaning against the frame, still barefoot, still in that worn T-shirt that somehow makes him look unfairly good for someone who just woke up.

You smile without turning around. “I’ve got deadlines. Mike wants an update on the piece, and I’ve already—”

“Made headlines?” he cuts in, smirking. “You’re definitely making something, that’s for sure.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “You’re impossible.”

He shrugs. “Hey, you’re the one doing fieldwork.” Then, after a beat, his grin widens. “Want me to help you get to work?”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Tom…”

“What? I meant moral support. Purely journalistic.”

You put your hair into a bonnet, admiring how well Tom keeps his eyes on yours, instead of taking in your naked body and shake your head, but the moment softens when he steps closer, resting a hand lightly against your shoulder. “Seriously,” he says, quieter now, “I admire it — what you’re doing. Even when it makes me… uncomfortable.”

The honesty in his voice stills you. The steam, the light, the quiet between words — it all hangs there for a moment too long.

“I know,” you whisper. “It’s weird. For both of us.”

He gives a small nod. “Yeah. But weird’s kind of our thing.”

You smile again, softer this time, then slip behind the shower curtain. As the water hits your skin, you can still hear him moving around the room — the sound of him grounding you, even when everything else feels like it’s starting to blur.

You sit across from Mike’s desk, sunlight slanting through the blinds, turning the edge of your coffee mug gold. You’ve been staring at the same sentence in your notes for ten minutes.

Mike finally looks up. “You look like someone who just came back from a good story or a bad decision. Which is it?”

You huff out a laugh. “Maybe both.”

Ophelia swivels her chair toward you, her curiosity instantly piqued. “That your way of saying Rob’s got layers?”

You glance down at your hands, remembering the way the night unfolded — the art show, the walk through the cold, the way he’d talked about that Frank Lloyd Wright church you’d visited the other week. Then, back at your apartment, the crackle of vinyl and the dim lamplight had made everything feel closer, softer.

“He’s…” you start, then stop, searching for the right word. “He’s genuine. He listens like he means it. We spent half the night talking about music — old albums, deep cuts, stories about his dad taking him to see Springsteen — and I just kept thinking, this is someone I could really know.”

Mike leans forward, eyebrows up. “You could really know him?”

"Mike I um... er really got to know him.." your cheeks turn red.

"So... you were basically cheating on your husband with Rob?" he asks, raising an eyebrow as he leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "And not just figuratively, but literally right under his nose."

You nod, your cheeks flushing even brighter at the thought of how close you came to being caught - and yet, somehow, that only serves to heighten your desire for more moments like these with Rob. You can feel a familiar warmth between your legs just thinking about it, reminding you of the way his fingers felt inside you.

"It was... exhilarating," you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you meet his gaze once more. "Like we were breaking some unspoken rule - something forbidden and dangerous that made everything feel even more intense."

Mike chuckles then, shaking his head in disbelief before leaning forward on his desk. "Well," he begins slowly, his voice low and filled with a kind of knowing smirk that leaves you feeling both embarrassed and excited all at once, "I can't say I blame you for wanting to explore something new - especially when it sounds like the risk was part of what made it so appealing."

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Don’t start. I mean—he just has this magnetism. Like you can feel it even when he’s quiet. I forgot I was supposed to be working.”

Ophelia grins. “That’s a dangerous sentence coming from you.”

You nod, the memory settling heavier in your chest. “It didn’t help that Tom was there. He was pretending to be my cousin, half-asleep on the couch. Every time I heard him shift or cough, I thought I’d snap back to reality. But then Rob would lean in, do something that made me gasp, and it was like the room shrank around us. The music, the quiet… it all just kind of blurred.”

Mike studies you for a moment. “You sound like someone who didn’t just observe a moment — you lived it.”

You meet his gaze, your voice low. “Yeah. And that’s what scares me. It wasn’t supposed to feel that real. Not with him in my mouth, and not with me forgetting which part of this is my job and which part is me.”

Ophelia softens a little, her teasing tone fading. “Maybe that’s the story, Claire — what happens when the lines blur.”

You nod, almost to yourself. “Maybe. But it feels like I’m the one being written.”