"Boxers, how about you."

She sends a selfie of her lying on her pillow. Her hair is a messy halo around her head, her tank top straps askew. The top of a lacy pink bra is visible. "Victim's Secret," she texts, a deliberate misspelling that makes you chuckle. "It's my armor for battling boring thoughts."

You feel a familiar warmth spread through your chest, a sharp, welcome distraction from the worry gnawing at you. The selfie is innocent enough, but the implication is a door cracking open. You type back, "Looks like formidable armor. I'm not sure my boring thoughts stand a chance." Your thumb hovers. You could end it here. Say goodnight. Be a good husband. But the silence in your room is too loud, and Peta's text thread is a quiet, rebellious hum against it.

You send it.

Your phone buzzes again. Not a text. A video. You tap it, the volume already off. Peta is sitting up now, her face close to the camera. She slowly runs a finger along the strap of her bra, a small, playful smile on her lips. She mouths the words, "You sure about that?" Then the video cuts.

You lock the phone, your heart hammering against your ribs. The silence in the room is no longer empty, it's thick with what you've just done, what you're inviting. You glance at Ava's sleeping form, the rhythmic rise and fall of her back a steady, innocent counterpoint to the guilty current running through you. You set the phone face down on the nightstand, the cool glass a small, inadequate penance.

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