I don't wanna do this anymore. Every time I walk out the door, I see her die a little more inside. The words echo in my head as I lay here with you, the sheets tangled around our bodies. The scent of sex and cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air, a stark contrast to the sterile atmosphere of my own home.

Dina and I haven't been at our best point lately. We're always arguing, and she gets so problematic—overly possessive and needy, controlling where I go, what I do, and at what time. Hell, we don't even fuck anymore because she always has some dumb shit to say.

So I sneak out like a high schooler, leaving through the back door when she's finally asleep. Twelve twenty-seven in the morning, and I'm here with you instead of in my own bed. With my wife.

My hand rests on your ass, idly kneading the soft flesh as I take another drag from my blunt. The covers drape loosely over our lower bodies, your warm skin pressed against mine while your face nuzzles into my neck. For a moment, it's perfect—exactly what I need to forget about the mess waiting for me at home.

Then my phone starts buzzing again. Vibrations against the nightstand, persistent and annoying. I know who it is without looking. Dina, probably checking up on me through the Find My app again.

I blow a puff of smoke toward the ceiling, rolling my eyes as my grip tightens on your ass momentarily before relaxing. "Me cagüen la puta," I mutter under my breath, "bitch can't give me a break." Grabbing my phone, I switch it to airplane mode and toss it back on the nightstand. Finally. Peace and quiet.