The first thing Ivan Fontaine noticed was the ice melting too fast in his drink.

The bar was dimly lit, cloaked in the kind of haze that made time indistinct. Red neon signs hummed gently above the counter, casting blood-colored reflections across the glossy wood. He sat at the far end, isolated, as though he'd been drawn there by instinct — or perhaps shame.

His wedding band caught a flicker of red light. He didn't move to hide it. He didn't move at all. The whiskey in his glass had diluted, its strength dissipated. Just like everything else in his life lately.

He hadn't planned on stopping. It had been a detour. A small act of self-sabotage. He told himself he would only sit for a moment. One drink. Maybe two. Then home. To her. But that intention had drowned somewhere between the second sip and the moment Camille walked in.

She arrived without announcement — tall, poised, wearing a black coat that kissed her calves, heels that echoed like warnings. Her dark hair was damp from the rain, curls clinging to her sharp jawline. She sat without asking, as though the empty stool beside him had been hers all along.

"You don't look like the kind of man who drinks alone," she said.

He looked at her, slow and measured. "I don't. Usually."

Her smile was deliberate. Calculated. She didn't glance at his ring. She didn't need to. Everything about her gaze was designed to make a man forget.

"Camille," she said, offering her name like a dare.

"Ivan."

Her fingers brushed his wrist when he reached for his glass. The contact lingered. She leaned in. Her perfume was rich — cinnamon, patchouli, something primal. It coiled into his lungs.

Their conversation began innocuously. Weather. Music. Shared cynicism about the city. Camille had a laugh that filled gaps in the air. She spoke with her hands, her words laced with suggestion. She didn't ask personal questions. She didn't ask if he was married.

Ivan didn't mention his partner. Not once.

He told himself he wasn't hiding them. He was protecting them. Shielding them from this moment. As though silence could sanctify betrayal.

It wasn't sudden. It was slow. Intentional. Camille let her fingers trail across the inside of his forearm. Her eyes lingered. Her thigh touched his.

"I should go," Ivan murmured.

"You won't."

And he didn't.

They left together. She led him through the back corridor of the bar, past the restrooms, to a locked door. She pulled a key from her coat pocket. A private room. No questions.

The air inside was stale. Dim. Boxes stacked along the walls. But it didn't matter.

Camille pressed him against the door. Her mouth met his with desperation he hadn't felt in years. Her hands moved quickly — under his shirt, into his belt, peeling away layers of responsibility. He didn't resist. He didn't speak.

His body answered what his mind tried to refuse.

She moaned softly into his mouth as he lifted her onto a crate. Her legs locked around his waist. Her nails dug into his back. His wedding ring scraped against her thigh.

There was no condom.

There was no thought.

Only friction. Breathing. Her name.

He came undone in her.

After, the silence returned. She adjusted her clothes with elegant indifference. He buttoned his shirt slowly, each movement feeling heavier than the last.

"You don't strike me as a man who does this often," she said, almost kindly.

"I'm not."

"But you did."

He didn't answer.

Outside, the air was bitter. Rain lingered on the pavement like sweat. He got into his car and sat there for a long time.

He took the small cologne bottle from the glove compartment. Sprayed it across his neck, wrists, chest. Twice. Then again. He wiped his mouth with a tissue. Scrubbed at his skin until it stung.

He checked his reflection. Hair. Shirt. Expression.

Blank. Controlled. Familiar.

He drove home through empty streets, headlights flickering through puddles. The silence in the car was deafening. Every red light was a pause. Every green light, a permission he didn't deserve.

When he pulled into the driveway, the porch light was still on. A soft, yellow glow like a welcome he hadn't earned. The curtains were drawn. The living room lamp was still lit.

He sat there for a moment.

Just breathing.

Then he stepped out. The air hit him hard. The scent of Camille was still clinging to his collar.

Inside, the house was warm. Quiet.

He placed his keys into the ceramic dish by the door, the same way he always did. Shrugged off his coat. Loosened his tie.

And then he saw them — seated with a book in their lap, blanket across their legs, eyes slowly lifting to meet his.

He swallowed hard. His voice, when it came, was even.

"I was out... just needed to clear my head."

He moved further into the living room, loosening his tie with an easy motion that felt rehearsed. His voice came out steady, almost too casual.

"How was your day, dear?"

The words tasted like ash.

He didn't look at them right away — not because he couldn't, but because if their eyes were too soft, too trusting, he might have collapsed right there. Might have confessed everything like a child with blood on his hands. But instead, he glanced at the book in their lap, the way their fingers still held the page. Normal. Everything looked painfully normal.

His mind whispered what his mouth wouldn't: You should be choking on guilt, not asking about their day.

And yet, he smiled. A practiced, gentle curve of the lips — like nothing had shifted, like his skin didn't still smell faintly of someone else.