Italian Restaurant

You wait until the kids are in bed, the hum of the dishwasher masking the creaks of the house. Tom’s on the sofa, scrolling through something on his phone.

You sit down opposite him, tucking your legs under you. “I need to tell you something.”

His eyes lift immediately, alert but calm. “Go on.”

You take a breath. “We’ve agreed to meet. Wildw*od, in town. Next week.”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Alright.”

“I thought it’d be better to meet somewhere public first,” you add quickly. “See if there’s anything there in person.”

He nods once, still watching you. “Makes sense. And after?”

You shift, the cushion dipping under your hand. “I… was thinking I’d get a hotel for the night. Just to have somewhere private if I needed it.”

His jaw tightens a fraction, but he doesn’t look away. “And?”

“I won’t be sleeping there,” you say firmly. “I’ll be back. That’s not changing.”

There’s a long pause. Then he sets his phone aside and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So you’ll meet him, maybe take it further, but you come home to me that night. No exceptions.”

You nod. “Exactly. You’re the one I go to sleep next to. Always.”

He exhales slowly, rubbing his hands together. “Alright. But text me when you’re leaving. I don’t care if it’s midnight or three in the morning, I want to know when you’re on your way.”

“Done,” you say.

For a few seconds, neither of you speaks, the low hum of the dishwasher filling the space. Then he leans back, his eyes still locked on yours. “Just remember, you’re my hotwife, not just a hotwife.”

You feel the words settle in you, warm and heavy. “I know.”