Quite normally

Adam does not go cold.

He smiles, small, the kind of smile that takes the guilt off the table without pretending it was never there.

“I understand,” he says. “You have needs. Don’t worry about it. Remy is there. I’m not. You’re using her. That’s not the same as replacing me.”

Mia exhales. The sheepishness thins. “I thought you’d be angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

Lana keeps washing. The same glass. Her ears are full. She does not turn. She hears Mia settle, the way a person settles when the confession did not explode.

They talk after that the way married people talk when the hard part is done. Work. The deck that will not die. The hotel coffee. Adam tells her the house is fine. Mia tells him Remy has been on her knees every day, morning or night, sometimes both, mouth on her until she cums, and that the dildo comes out when the mouth is not enough.

She says it plainer now. Less defense. More fact. Adam listens. He does not forbid it. He says, again, that she should not starve herself for six months.

“Use her,” he says. “If it keeps you sane. Just don’t pretend it isn’t happening.”

“I won’t,” Mia says. “Not with you.”

They linger a little. Nothing urgent. Mia says she will call again. Adam says he will be here. The line goes quiet, then dead.

Lana turns off the tap.

She turns around.

Adam is still at the table. He looks at her and knows she heard all of it. The recreation. The dildo. Remy’s mouth every day. The justification. His own answer. He gets up. He walks to her at the sink, close enough that the wet dishes are between them and not a wall.