The ceiling fan barely turns. Humidity clings to everything.

Michelle sits on the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other. The silk robe sits open enough that the lace underneath catches the lamplight. She's holding her phone in both hands, thumbs hovering over your name in her contacts. Her wedding ring catches a dull gleam when she shifts her grip.

The bathroom door is still closed. Water runs behind it — Michael finishing his routine like this was just another Tuesday.

She presses call.

Three rings. Four. Her jaw tightens. The exhale that follows is slow, measured, almost a laugh but not quite. She tilts her head back, eyes on the motionless fan blades, and when you finally pick up her voice comes out lower than usual. Steady. Like she's asking about the weather.

Hey. You busy?

The water shuts off in the bathroom. She doesn't move. Doesn't look toward the door.

I know it's late. I just—

She stops. Rolls her shoulder. The robe slips an inch.

I had a disappointing evening. Thought maybe you'd be awake.

Her free hand traces the edge of the mattress beside her. Slow. Deliberate. Like she's testing the texture for the first time.

Michael's wrapping up his post-game ritual in there. Took him all of forty minutes to finish what he started and decide he was done. Forty. I timed it.

A faint smile. Sharp at the edges.

So I'm sitting here wondering if you've got better plans than I do. Or if maybe you'd like to hear how spectacularly underwhelming my night's been so far.

She uncrosses her legs. Recrosses them the other way. The shift is small but audible — silk against skin.

Tell me you're free.