The clatter of dishes echoed softly in the kitchen, mingling with the faint roar of the football game drifting in from the living room. I stood beside Hannah, sleeves rolled up, helping her rinse plates and stack leftovers into neat plastic containers. It was our unspoken ritual—every Sunday evening, the whole family gathered under one roof. The women handled the food, the men planted themselves on couches with beers in hand, and the children's laughter carried in from the backyard where they chased each other until the porch light flicked on.
It was wholesome. Traditional. Exactly the kind of family gathering I never had as a child. My parents had been distant, detached people—our dinners were quick affairs, eaten in silence. No noise, no joy. Here, in this noisy kitchen with Hannah humming under her breath as she wiped down the counters, I felt both comforted and painfully aware of what I had missed.
Ray came in then, quiet but commanding, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. Without a word, he slid behind his wife, wrapping his arms around her waist as if she belonged to him completely. She did. Hannah leaned back into him instinctively, tilting her head as he murmured something against her ear. She giggled, soft and girlish, and the sound made my chest tighten.
But it wasn't her reaction that undid me—it was him.
Because all the while he pressed kisses against his wife's neck, his eyes were fixed on me.
Those eyes. Hazel flecked with gold, sharp enough to pin me in place. They looked straight through me, through every wall I'd built to keep these thoughts at bay. A gaze that felt like a hand on my skin, sliding lower, testing how far I would let it go.
I forced myself to look away, pretending to scrub harder at a dish, though the water had long since cooled. The sound of Hannah's laughter only sharpened the ache twisting in my stomach. My gaze betrayed me though, flicking back toward them.
Ray's hands wandered over her hips, her waist, lingering, stroking. Possessive. Affectionate. Shameless. I watched, unable to stop myself, my imagination igniting with heat I shouldn't have allowed. What would it feel like, those rough, capable hands on me instead? On my skin, in my hair, pulling me closer instead of her?
It was suddenly too warm in the kitchen.
Hannah's beauty had always been undeniable. She glowed in a way that was both enviable and effortless—curves like a pin-up model, a voice that charmed everyone in the room, a confidence that drew people to her like moths to a flame. Even after three children—her youngest barely a month old—she looked radiant. And Ray adored her for it. He was always touching her, praising her, showing the world how wanted she was.
Jealousy tasted bitter at the back of my throat.
I swallowed hard, forced my attention to the countertop. But when I dared glance back, Ray's eyes were waiting for me. Smoldering. Hungry. A silent, forbidden promise wrapped in that look.
My pulse spiked. Panic shoved me into motion. I mumbled something about checking on the kids and fled the kitchen, desperate to put distance between myself and the dangerous path my thoughts had taken.
Outside, the cool evening air brushed over me like a blessing. The children were still running wild in the yard, squealing as they tossed a football back and forth.
"Aunt Sophie, catch!" one of them shouted.
The ball whizzed toward my face, and instinct kicked in. I snatched it out of the air just in time.
"Nice catch."
The voice came with a smirk. Pete.
I sighed inwardly as he strolled closer. Pete had a way of inserting himself into my orbit every family gathering, his intentions never subtle. Unlike Ray, whose silent glances set me ablaze, Pete's advances only annoyed me. Still, I tolerated him. Better to endure his clumsy flirtation than allow my thoughts to spiral back toward Ray.
I tossed the ball back to one of the kids. "Have you seen Mike?" I asked, deliberately steering the conversation.
Pete's smirk faltered, souring into a scowl. "Why are you always looking for Mike when I'm standing right here?" His tone carried more bite than usual. "You can do so much better than him."
I forced a smile, polite but firm, the same one I'd given him a dozen times before. "I married Mike because I love him, Pete. Maybe you should worry more about your own marriage than mine."
His jaw tightened. "How did that runt get so lucky?" he muttered, half under his breath, before stalking away.
I let out a long exhale, relief washing over me at his retreat. Turning back toward the house, I braced myself.
Mike was just emerging from the TV room as I stepped inside. My husband—quiet, serious, his dark hair falling into eyes that rarely sought mine anymore. I smiled, hoping to bridge the distance between us, but he barely gave me a nod.
"You ready to go home?" His voice was flat, tired.
I nodded, grabbing my bag from the hook by the door. I smiled again, because I always smiled, because pretending was easier than facing the truth head-on.
We said our goodbyes, and as we walked to the truck, I felt it again—that weight, that steady gaze following me. Ray. Watching. Always watching. I didn't let myself look until Mike started the engine, but when I did, my breath caught. He was standing at the window, expression unreadable, except for the fire still burning in his eyes.
I looked away quickly, cheeks flaming.
The drive was silent, as it usually was. Mike's hands gripped the steering wheel, his focus locked on the road ahead. Once, silence between us had felt comfortable, like a soft blanket wrapping around our closeness. Now it pressed in, suffocating.
We'd been married six months. I had met his family only three months ago, eager to belong, eager to weave myself into their traditions. Mike was the youngest of the three brothers—Pete, Ray, then him.
I met him at college. From the moment our paths crossed, we were inseparable. It wasn't fireworks or whirlwind romance. It was steady. Safe. We shared late-night study sessions, quiet coffee dates, and long walks where words weren't necessary. I thought that was love. I believed it so fully I walked down the aisle certain I was making the right choice.
But somewhere in the quiet of our new life together, something shifted.
I realized I didn't love him.
Or maybe I never had, not in the way that mattered. I liked him. I felt safe with him. But safety wasn't the same as desire, wasn't the same as that aching, burning need that curled in my stomach whenever Ray looked at me.
If I truly loved Mike, I wouldn't be dreaming of his brother.
I wouldn't be lying in bed at night imagining Ray's hands and lips instead of the man beside me.
I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass, the blur of passing headlights streaking across my reflection.
I needed to figure out what I really felt—for Mike, for Ray, for myself. Because I couldn't go on like this. Not forever. Not even for much longer.
Something had to change.