The words hung in the air, a challenge wrapped in a plea. Mark’s eyes flicked between us, a mix of defiance and curiosity swimming in their depths. He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen before locking his phone and tossing it onto the couch with a dismissive shrug. “Fine. Talk.”
Ben glanced at me, a brief, reassuring nod that sent a shiver of resolve down my spine. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked—a stance of earnestness, of vulnerability. “This situation,” he began, gesturing between the three of us, “is unsustainable. We’ve been dancing around it for months.”
Mark’s face tightened, jaw set in a stubborn line. “You’re screwing my wife, Ben.”
The bluntness of his accusation felt like a slap, the air crackling with tension. I opened my mouth to respond, but Ben beat me to it. “And you’re screwing someone else, Mark. This was your idea, remember?”
