High Rise Affair

The alarm buzzed at 6:30 in the morning, right as William rode the final crest of release deep inside his wife, Maggie. A dark moan caught in his chest as he emptied into her, his muscles quivering before he sank onto his side to slap the alarm silent. "Oh, fuck, baby," he breathed, his lungs burning as he pulled her flush against his chest, drinking in her warmth. "I can't get enough of you." He captured her lips again, his tongue slick and urgent against hers, tasting the salt of sweat and sweet familiar warmth. "I'll never get enough of you."

Maggie returned the kiss with a fierce, quiet hunger, a tiny sigh trembling through her nose as his broad arms banded around her back. Dawn pushed weak, golden light through the bedroom blinds, casting long zebra stripes of shadow across the tangled white sheets. She buried her face against the warm hollow of his neck, listening to the heavy, reassuring thump of his heart beneath her cheek.

"Me neither," she murmured, her hot breath kissing his collarbone. "Not ever, Will."

A stillness settled between them, broken only by the lazy whir of the ceiling fan and the distant, sharp chirp of birds in the ivy outside. Then, a distinct floorboard groan echoed from down the hallway. William's grip on her bare waist tightened instinctively, the spell breaking.

"Sounds like someone's up downstairs," she whispered, making no effort to untangle her legs from his.

"Ethan, probably," William grunted, his voice husky from sleep, picturing their fifteen-year-old son prowling the kitchen. "Scheming how to take over the world before his first bowl of cereal."

Maggie let out a soft laugh, the vibration hummed against his ribs. "Or just starving, as usual. He's a growing boy, Will. Just like his father."

With a long, reluctant groan, William sat up and swung his legs over the mattress, the morning air prickling his warm skin. He stretched his arms high, his back popping in a sharp rhythm. "I'd better get in the shower. Schedule is slammed today." He pushed off the bed, heading for the master bath. "Might be late tonight, Mags."

"How late?" Maggie called after him, leaning up on her elbows. "Ethan's got his first game tonight at six."

"I won't make it, sweetheart," William said, pushing the bathroom door back open to lean against the frame, a towel draped low on his hips. "Got that new secretary starting today. I have to spend the whole day showing her the ropes." He winced slightly, trying for a sheepish grin. "Don't worry about it. I'll make it up to you both, I promise."

Maggie sat up further, gathering the sheet around her waist. "A new secretary, huh? Is she pretty?" A playful smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, but a dark flicker crossed her gaze—a fleeting question she buried deep down. "Don't think I won't be checking out her LinkedIn profile later."

William laughed, that deep, resonant baritone that always made her chest loosen. "She could be a swimsuit model, Mags, and she still wouldn't hold a candle to you." He blew a kiss off his fingers before pulling the door shut. "You know that." Seconds later, the pipes hissed, and the spray turned into a steady, hot drumbeat against the tile.

Left alone in the bedroom, Maggie combed her fingers through her tangled hair, her smile wilting as her eyes stayed locked on the closed door. She knew he loved her. She knew he was telling the truth. But logic didn't stop the cold prickle of insecurity that liked to creep up in the quiet moments when his back was turned.

She brushed the thought aside and swung out of bed, a chill running up her legs from the bare floorboards. Pausing at the full-length mirror near the closet, she took in her reflection. For thirty-eight, after carrying two babies to term, she knew she had held on to her body well. The waist was still narrow, her legs toned. Only the soft crow's feet framing her eyes and the tiny crease lines around her mouth betrayed her age. William always told her she had the kind of mouth men wrecked their lives over.

Shaking her head at her own reflection, she pulled on a pair of faded jeans and a soft grey tee, then made her way downstairs. The dark, rich scent of dark roast hit her before she reached the bottom step. Ethan was hunched over the island counter, a half-empty bowl of cereal beside him, thumbs flying over his phone screen. He'd already hit the switch on the coffee pot—his one quiet habit of consideration.

"Morning, champ," Maggie said, tussling his dark hair as she walked past to reach for a mug. "Big game tonight. You ready to tear them up?"

Ethan glanced up, resting his phone against his thigh. "Yeah, I guess. It's just practice anyway. Dad's not even coming." He offered the detail casually, but Maggie saw the stiffening of his shoulders, the faint tighten around his mouth.

"He has to work, Ethan. New secretary starts today, so he's trapped at the firm." She poured her coffee, splashing in a drop of milk. "He'll catch the next one, I promise. And I'm going to be right there in the front row embarrassing you. I'll scream until security tells me to sit down."

"Right," Ethan mumbled, his dark eyes rolling toward the ceiling. "He had sixteen games last season and came to one. It's always work." He dropped his gaze back to his phone, shoveling another spoonful of milk-soaked flakes into his mouth.

The words lingered in the quiet air, stinging because they were true. Maggie took a long, hot sip, searching for the instinctual defense she usually offered—the eighty-hour weeks William put in, the firm he built from a single desk, the lifestyle they enjoyed. But looking at her son, seeing the shadow of William's stubborn jawline on his teenage face, the excuses died in her throat. The kid had every right to be bitter.

"He really is proud of you, Ethan," she said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. "You know that, right?"

"Sure," Ethan said, slumping in his stool. "Whatever."

The back door rattled open, and Chloe burst into the kitchen, her heavy backpack dragging off one shoulder. She was the spitting image of Maggie at sixteen—all lean limbs and expressive eyes—though she'd inherited William's thick, dark wave of hair.

"Don't 'whatever' Mom, you little troll," Chloe snapped, dropping her bag against the baseboards with a heavy thud. "Dad works himself to death to keep a roof over your ungrateful head so you can run around a field." She grabbed the juice carton from the fridge, pouring herself a glass. "Morning, Mom."

"Morning, sweetie. You're down early."

"Yeah, Mr. Henderson needs help setting up tables for the science fair." Chloe took a long gulp of juice, her eyes darting between her mother's weary smile and Ethan's glowering face. "Are you two fighting? I can feel the bad energy. It's totally messing up my chi."

"We are not fighting," Maggie and Ethan grunted in unison.

"Good. Because Kimmy is outside and I am not mentally equipped for a family crisis before first period." Chloe rinsed her glass in the sink and spun around, holding out two fingers. "I need twenty dollars."

"For what?" Maggie asked, already unclasping her purse on the counter.

"Science fair poster boards. Glue. Duh."

"Alright, calm down." Maggie slipped a twenty from her wallet and handed it over. "Have a good day. Tell Kimmy thanks for driving."

Kimmy had gotten her driver's license last month, taking over the morning commute for the girls. It was one less task on Maggie's endless daily checklist, though seeing her sixteen-year-old ride off in a sedan driven by another teenager always left a nervous knot in her stomach.

"Will do!" Chloe threw her arms around Maggie's neck for a quick, scent-of-vanilla hug, flipped a tiny middle finger at Ethan, and vanished through the door before her brother could hurl an insult back.

Upstairs, a door clicked shut, followed by the firm, measured tread of William's leather-soled shoes coming down the stairs. He stepped into the kitchen looking sharp—tailored charcoal trousers, a crisp white dress shirt buttoned to the neck, his dark hair neatly combed back and smelling of sandalwood and fresh soap.

"Left you plenty of hot water, baby," he said, pressing a warm kiss to the crown of Maggie's head as he moved past. He paused at the island, clapping a firm hand on Ethan's shoulder, squeezing tight. "Kill 'em out there tonight, son. I'm sorry I can't be in the bleachers."

"Got it," Ethan muttered to his cereal, not bothering to lift his head. "New secretary. Important stuff."

William's smile froze, his jaw flexing once. He cut his eyes to Maggie, silently asking if he should push it. Maggie gave him a faint, warning shake of her head. Don't start.

He filled his stainless-steel travel mug with practiced ease, snapping the lid into place. "Alright. I'm late. Love you both."

"Love you, drive safe," Maggie called after him.

Ethan gave a low, noncommittal grunt.

The heavy front door clicked shut, the sound ringing through the ground floor. The silence that swept back into the kitchen felt thick, heavy with things left unsaid. Ethan pushed his empty bowl into the sink, keeping his back to her. "He doesn't even know what position I play anymore," he said quietly, his voice cracking slightly on the last word.

Maggie stared at her son, her heart aching against her ribs. She wanted to say something—I'll remind him, he cares, he's just stressed—but the words felt like dust in her throat. She stood frozen, clutching her warm ceramic mug as Ethan rinsed his dish, grabbed his jacket, and kissed her cheek on his way out to catch the yellow bus idling at the corner.