She frowned, sitting up, clutching the blanket like it could hide her shame. "You're still mad about last night?" I raised an eyebrow. "Still? You confessed to cheating, bragged you'd do it again, and went to bed like you just finished reading a bedtime story."
"So, yeah. Still might be understating it." She huffed, brushing her hair back. "I was drunk."
"Right," I said, nodding. "Because tequila makes you honest, not creative. You didn't invent that story. You just lost the ability to filter it."
For a second, she looked guilty. Then, like clockwork, came the deflection. "You've been distant lately, always working. You made me feel neglected."
Ah, there it was. The classic villain monologue. You made me cheat. I almost clapped.
"I'm sorry," I said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "I didn't realize loyalty was something you canceled when the Wi-Fi got slow." She glared, but I didn't stop. "You felt neglected, so your solution was to play Twister with your boss. Genius."
"What's next? Rob a bank because you felt underpaid?" She rolled her eyes. "You're being childish."
"Childish?" I laughed. "No, childish is eating cookies before dinner. I'm being factual." I walked over to the counter, poured her a cup of coffee, black, no sugar, and carried it back, setting it down with a smile so polite it should have been illegal.
"Here," I said. "Your morning dose of consequences." She stared at the cup like it might bite her.
"What's your problem, Belinda?" I said, leaning on the doorframe. "My problem is I used to think we were a team. Turns out I was playing basketball while you were interviewing for the other side's cheer squad." Her lip trembled for half a second.
Then she recovered, grabbed the cup, and took a sip just to prove a point. I swear the bitterness hit her soul. She set it down fast. "You're being dramatic."
"No," I said. "I'm being honest. You should try it. I hear it's trending this season."
For a long moment, we just stared at each other. The kind of silence that doesn't need words because the air is already screaming. She tried to hold my gaze, but guilt's heavy. Eventually, she looked away.
"I made a mistake," she whispered. I tilted my head. "Just one? Because that's not how you described it last night." That one landed.
Her shoulders tensed, and she started fiddling with the blanket again. "Can we not do this first thing in the morning?" "Oh, sorry," I said, mock apologetic. "I didn't realize betrayal had office hours."
She scowled. "You're an ass." "Thank you," I said, sipping again. "Took years of marriage to earn that title."