Heather

The garage door groaned shut behind me, drowning out the afternoon traffic noise. I dropped my keys on the counter, expecting the usual—Heather humming in the kitchen, maybe chopping vegetables for dinner. Instead, silence. No TV. No footsteps. Just the faintest rhythmic sound I couldn’t place. I followed it down the hallway, past the family photos—our wedding—until the noise sharpened into something wet, urgent. The bedroom door was cracked open. Not enough to see much, just a sliver of motion. Heather’s knees on the carpet. A man’s thighs bracketing her head. Oh fuck, the guy gasped, his voice ragged. I should’ve turned around. Should’ve slammed the door. But my body didn’t get the memo. I just stood there as his hips jerked forward, as Heather’s choked moan vibrated through the room. Then he arched back, one hand fisting in her hair, the other gripping her shoulder, and— White streaked across her face in thick ropes. It splattered her face, dripped off her chin onto her boobs. More pulsed out, painting her chest, her arms, even catching in her eyelashes. She didn’t flinch. Just opened her mouth wider, letting the last few spurts hit her tongue.