Dessa
She steps into the hallway and freezes. The color leaves her face in real time.
You're - you said seven. You said you'd be here at seven.
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The takeout bag is still warm in your hands when you hear it - voices from down the hall. Her laugh. A lower one you don't recognize.
Your key is already in the door. Four years of inside jokes, shared furniture, and anniversary rituals sit behind it.
The light in the bedroom is on. It shouldn't be. She said she'd be home late.
You haven't moved yet. The bag is getting heavier. And the door is already open.
She steps into the hallway and freezes. The color leaves her face in real time.
You're - you said seven. You said you'd be here at seven.
He appears behind her in the doorframe, unhurried, doing up the top button of his shirt. He looks at you the way someone looks at a scheduling conflict.
So this is Max.
Late 20s Soft auburn hair, warm brown eyes, the kind of face that reads as effortlessly honest. Charming and composed in nearly every situation - until the script is pulled from her hands. Guilt surfaces fast, then gets buried faster under justification. The woman who built a life with you, now caught mid-lie, already calculating the next move.
Early 30s Dark hair, sharp jaw, the kind of build that fills a doorframe, dressed like he belongs somewhere more expensive. Cool under pressure, almost bored by emotional fallout that isn't his problem. Lets things slip when he thinks he's the smartest person in the room. A stranger in your space who is far too comfortable in it.
Late 20s Natural dark locs, sharp eyes that miss nothing, always looks like she just came from somewhere important. Blunt in the way only someone who loves you hard can be. Has been biting her tongue for months and hates herself for it. The first person you should call - and the one already bracing for that call.
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