u/Consistent_Snow4669

I need to say this somewhere before I lose my mind. I'm 32, I've been married for six years, and I have never once looked at another man. I'm the boring one. My friends literally call me the responsible one. So I genuinely don't recognize the person typing this.

Two weeks ago my husband left for a job out of state. His best friend, Marcus, is going through a brutal divorce and had nowhere to stay, so my husband offered him our guest room. I said yes without even thinking. He's family. He's been at every barbecue, every birthday, he helped us move. He's just Marcus.

Except he's not just Marcus anymore, and I hate that I just typed that.

The first week was nothing. We'd pass each other in the kitchen. He gets up earlier than me, and somewhere around day three he started leaving a mug out next to the coffee maker for me. He fixed the hallway cabinet door that's been broken since March, the one my husband has walked past every single day and never once mentioned.

That's the detail I keep coming back to. Not anything dramatic. The cabinet door.

Then it was dinners. I'd cook for two because it felt rude not to. We'd sit across from each other talking about his divorce, my job, whatever show we're both watching. Normal stuff. Except I caught myself doing things I'm embarrassed to write down. Taking longer to get ready before he came home. Wearing my hair down. Shaving my legs for no reason on a Tuesday. Choosing the couch cushion closest to his.

And him. He started saying my name in this way that made my stomach drop. Looking at me a half-second too long, then looking away first like he'd been caught at something.

There was a moment last week I told myself was nothing. I turned the corner toward the bathroom and he was coming out in just a towel. We both froze. I said something stupid about the hot water running low and he laughed, and neither of us moved for a second too long. I have replayed that second more times than I will ever admit to anyone.

Tonight it snapped. I don't know how else to describe it.

We watched a movie. I don't even remember which one. I poured us both a glass of wine, then another one. At some point his leg ended up pressed against mine under the blanket and neither of us moved it. For an hour, neither of us moved. I could feel the heat of him through his jeans and my entire body went still in a way that had nothing to do with relaxing.

Then he reached across me for the remote on the table and his hand grazed my knee. It could have been an accident. It should have been an accident. But he didn't pull away. His fingers just rested there, and I felt him go tense, like he was deciding something. And the worst part, the part I can't stop thinking about, is that I didn't move either.

I should have laughed and gotten up to refill the popcorn. Old me would have done exactly that.

Instead I sat there with my heart pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it, and I let his hand stay on my knee.

He's the one who pulled back. He stood up, said he was tired, his voice all low and rough in a way I'd never heard from him before. He went to his room. I sat on the couch through the credits pretending I was watching them.

So nothing happened. That's what's driving me insane. Nothing happened and I already feel like I've cheated. I keep replaying the warmth of his leg against mine, the weight of his fingers, the way he said my name when he said goodnight.

And now it's 2 a.m. and I'm lying here next to the empty side of the bed where my husband should be, typing this on a throwaway account, and there's only one question running through my head.

Tomorrow night, when we're back on that couch, what am I actually hoping happens?

Because I think I know the answer. And it scares me how little it scares me.