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The apartment door clicked shut behind them, and the silence rushed in like water filling a vacuum. For a long moment I just stood there in the entryway, empty glass still in my hand, staring at the wood grain of the door as if it might open again and undo everything that had just happened. The air still carried the faint trace of Kristen’s sunscreen and Brad’s cologne, mixed with the lingering musk of our morning sex. My legs felt heavy, like they belonged to someone else.
I needed to get out. Needed fresh air, noise, anything to stop the loop in my head: her smile when she saw him, the way she tugged down her shorts to show him the lace thong, the casual way she kissed my cheek like I was a child being sent off to play. I set the glass on the side table, grabbed my keys and wallet, slipped on shoes without tying the laces, and reached for the doorknob.
Then I stopped.
What was I going to do outside? Walk around the block? Sit in a café and pretend to read? The thought made my stomach turn. Everyone would see me—the pale, tired husband whose wife was jogging with the kid from downstairs. They’d know. Or maybe they wouldn’t. But I would know. And worse, I’d know she was out there with him, laughing, sweating, letting him touch her ponytail while she filmed it for the world to see.
I let my hand drop from the knob.
Instead I turned, walked to the couch, and sank into it like my body had been waiting for permission to collapse. The cushions still held the faint warmth from where Brad had sat earlier, like he had claimed the spot and left his shape behind. I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen, telling myself I was just checking the time or the weather or anything normal. Anything that wasn’t her.
Instagram opened automatically. Muscle memory. Her profile was already at the top of my search history.
She had posted a story two minutes ago.
I tapped it before I could talk myself out of it.
The video was ten seconds long, filmed in selfie mode while she ran. Kristen held the phone out in front of her, arm extended, face flushed and smiling wide, ponytail bouncing with each stride. The park trail blurred behind her in greens and browns. She was breathing hard but laughing, the sound bright and breathless through the tiny speaker. “Okay, okay, Brad’s trying to keep up!” she said to the camera, voice playful. “Say hi, slowpoke!”
The camera panned slightly to the side as she angled the phone. Brad appeared in frame, running just behind her, grin wide, tank top already dark with sweat. He waved once, then reached forward and gave her ponytail a quick, playful tug—gentle but firm enough to make her squeal and swat at him without breaking stride. “Gotta keep you motivated, Kristit,” he called, voice low and teasing.
Kristen laughed harder, turning the camera back on herself for the last few seconds. But just before the video ended, she tilted the phone down a fraction—enough to catch Brad’s eyes dropping unmistakably to her ass in those black shorts. He didn’t even try to hide it. His gaze lingered, hungry, while she was still giggling and catching her breath. She caught him in the act, glanced back over her shoulder, and busted him with a teasing “Eyes up here, perv!” before the clip looped.
Ten seconds of her running, laughing, Brad’s hand in her hair, his eyes on her ass, her calling him out like it was the funniest thing in the world. I watched it again. And again.
Each loop felt shorter, sharper. The way her head jerked back playfully when he pulled. The way she didn’t pull away. The way she looked straight into the camera—into me—while he touched her, while he stared at her body like it was already his. The way she giggled when she caught him looking, not mad, not embarrassed, just amused. Like it was normal. Like it was fun.
My thumb hovered over the screen. I could swipe it away. Close the app.
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