The walk ended at her block, the porch light humming warm against the early dark. Francis set the grocery bag by her feet, his smirk faint as he said his piece and turned to leave. But she stopped him.
"Wait," she said, her voice softer than it had been all evening.
Francis glanced back, cigarette smoke curling from his lips.
"You want to come in? Just for a drink," she asked. Her hand lifted slightly, almost nervous, like she wasn't used to inviting people in on impulse. "It's the least I can do for walking me."
For a beat, he didn't move. Then he nodded once. "Alright."
She smiled—small but real—and unlocked the door.
The house smelled faintly of vanilla candles and laundry detergent. Neat, warm, with toys scattered in the living room corner. The kind of house Francis had never known growing up. She set the bag on the counter, slipped off her coat, and gestured toward the couch.
"Sit. I'll grab something."
Francis eased into the leather sofa, cigarette stubbed out in the empty glass tray. His eyes scanned the room—family photos lined neatly on the wall. Reynolds smiling stiffly in all of them, arm draped around her shoulders. The kids—bright-eyed, innocent, unaware. Francis leaned back, fingers steepled, silent.
She returned with two glasses, amber liquid catching the lamplight. "Whiskey," she said, handing one to him. "Not top-shelf, but it gets the job done."
Francis accepted it, their fingers brushing again. "It'll do."
They clinked glasses lightly. She sat close, not too close, sipping slow.
For a while they talked—little things. Her kids' favorite shows, Francis's complaints about South Side winters, even her teasing him about looking too serious all the time. It loosened something in her. Her laugh came easier. She shifted on the couch, turning more toward him.
"Funny," she said, eyes lingering on his. "I feel like I've known you longer than a few conversations."
"Maybe you just see through people faster than most," Francis replied smoothly, sipping his drink.
The quiet hung there, thick. Her gaze dropped briefly to his mouth, then back up.
And then she leaned in.
The kiss was tentative at first, like testing the water. Soft, careful. But Francis didn't pull away. He kissed her back, steady, his hand brushing her jaw. The warmth grew quick, her lips pressing firmer, her hand sliding to his chest.
But just as fast, Francis stopped.
He pulled back, breath low, his hand still resting lightly against her face. His eyes held hers—calm, sharp, unwavering.
"Don't," he said quietly.
She blinked, breath catching. "Why? Is it… because I'm older?"
Francis shook his head, smirk tugging faintly but without humor. "No. That's not it."
Her brows furrowed, searching his face. "Then what is it?"
He leaned back slightly, setting his glass on the table. His voice came low, steady, each word deliberate. "Because my life's on the line here. Your husband? He's got the power to send me back to prison with a snap of his fingers. And I don't intend to hand him a reason."
She swallowed, looking down at her lap.
Francis continued, softer now. "You've got kids upstairs. A family. Whatever you feel right now… it isn't worth blowing all of that up. Not for me. Not for a moment."
Her eyes glistened faintly. She nodded, slow. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."
Francis leaned forward, his voice quiet but firm. "Don't apologize. You're human. You're… more than that." He let the words linger before finishing, "You're a good woman. A great one. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise."
She looked at him, surprised by the certainty in his tone. A small, tired smile broke through.
"You talk like you've known me my whole life," she murmured.
Francis smirked faintly. "Maybe I just pay attention."
She laughed softly, shaking her head. The tension eased. She set her glass down next to his and folded her hands in her lap. "Thank you. Really."
Francis stood, adjusting his jacket. "Finish your drink. Get some rest. Tomorrow's another day."
She rose with him, walking him to the door. For a moment she hesitated, then touched his arm lightly. "Be careful, Francis."
He glanced at her hand, then back into her eyes. "Always."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Outside, Francis lit another cigarette, the flame catching sharp against the night. He exhaled smoke slow, his mind clear, sharp.
He had lines he wouldn't cross—not tonight, not like this and at least not yet. But he'd taken what he needed: trust. A seed planted.
Step by step.
The game was still his.
After Francis left the house, a few minutes later.
The house went quiet after Francis left, the echo of the door clicking shut still hanging in the air. Mrs. Reynolds stood there for a moment, hand lingering on the knob, her chest rising and falling slower now. She almost felt… lighter, though her face carried a tension she couldn't shake.
She turned back toward the living room, the lamp spilling warm light across the furniture. Her glass of whiskey still sat on the table, half-full, untouched since she'd put it down. She lifted it, sipped once, and let it rest again.
Her eyes drifted upward, toward the wall.
The family photos lined neat as soldiers.
Her gaze landed on one in particular—her and Reynolds at some office party years ago. His arm around her shoulder, both of them smiling. She studied his face, stiff and practiced, like the smile had been a mask he'd perfected. Her own grin, brighter then, caught her off guard. She remembered how hopeful she'd felt that night. How sure she was that things would work out.
The smile on her face now vanished.
Her lips pressed thin. A frown carved itself across her features, deeper as she kept staring at the frozen image of them together. The whiskey burned in her chest, but the heat rising wasn't from the drink.
It was anger.
Her eyes narrowed. "Cheating bastard," she whispered, the words slipping out before she even realized she'd spoken.
The phrase sat heavy in the room.
She blinked, surprised at the sound of her own voice, then let the words sink deeper. Her hand clenched around the glass, knuckles whitening.
Images spilled through her mind—late nights, unanswered calls, that smell of perfume on his shirts he swore was nothing. The way he came home some nights too cheerful, too rehearsed. The way she'd chosen not to push, because pushing meant admitting she already knew.
Her chest tightened. The frown didn't leave. It deepened, sharpening into something harder.
She muttered it again, louder this time, teeth clenched. "Cheating bastard."
For the first time in years, she didn't feel guilty for saying it. She didn't feel weak for noticing. She felt sharp. Clear.
She set the glass down harder than she meant to, the liquid inside rippling.
The photo stared back at her, frozen smile mocking her, his hand draped across her shoulder like a claim. She considered pulling it down, smashing the frame across the floor. But she didn't. Not yet.
Instead, she turned away, her robe tugged tight around her. She headed upstairs, every step heavier than the last. Her kids were asleep. They didn't need to see this storm brewing.
At the landing, she paused, looking back once more at the photo wall.
The frown stayed.
Her anger stayed.
And for the first time, she let herself admit it out loud—her husband wasn't the man she'd built her life around. He wasn't even close.
Downstairs, the whiskey glass sat untouched, the photo frames glinting under the lamp.
But the air in the house had shifted.
Jessica wasn't just tired anymore.
She was angry.