Stolen Sundays

The house felt wrong without him. Not empty, exactly. Mark had been gone for three days, and in that time the silence had settled into the corners like dust, thick and unfamiliar. I’d walk through the living room and catch myself listening for the clink of his whiskey glass, the shuffle of his slippers on hardwood. Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of a clock I usually tuned out.

I told myself I was fine. I was fine.

But fine didn’t stop my hand from drifting to my phone every twenty minutes, thumb hovering over his name, then pulling back. He was in Chicago. Some conference about supply chain logistics, which sounded like a cure for insomnia in pill form. He’d called twice. Both times he’d sounded distracted, like I was an item on a checklist he needed to cross off before the next meeting. “Love you,” he’d said, and I’d said it back, and then the line went dead and I was alone again with the hum and the tick and the growing itch under my skin.

So when my friend Jenna texted me about a party at some guy’s house on the other side of town, I didn’t say no. I didn’t even hesitate.

“You need to get out,” she’d written. “Stop moping. Come drink something expensive and pretend you’re fun.”

I typed back: “Fine. But if there’s a karaoke machine, I’m leaving.”

She sent back a row of laughing emojis that I knew meant there was definitely a karaoke machine.

I spent an hour getting ready. Not because I was trying to impress anyone, I told myself. Just because I could. Because when Mark was home, I’d throw on whatever was clean and call it a night. But tonight, I pulled out a dress I’d bought months ago and never worn. Black. Short. Cut low enough that my breasts looked like they were trying to escape. I stared at myself in the mirror and felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a while. Recognition.

I grabbed my purse and walked out the door without looking back.

The party was at a house that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread about people who had more money than taste. White stucco, floor-to-ceiling windows, a pool that glowed turquoise in the dark. Music thumped from inside, bass bleeding through the walls and into the warm night air. People spilled out onto the patio, drinks in hand, laughing too loud at jokes that weren’t that funny.

Jenna found me within thirty seconds. She grabbed my arm and pulled me through the crowd, her dark hair bouncing, her grin wide and slightly drunk. “You look hot,” she shouted over the music. “Like, unfairly hot. Mark is an idiot for leaving you alone.”

“He’s on a business trip,” I said, but the words felt thin, like I was defending something I didn’t believe in.

“Still an idiot.” She shoved a glass of wine into my hand. “Drink. Mingle. Do something I can gossip about later.”

I drank. The wine was good, dry and cold, and it settled something in my chest that had been wound tight for days. I let Jenna drag me around, introduced me to people whose names I forgot immediately. A guy in a polo shirt who talked about his startup. A woman with too much eyeliner who wanted to know where I got my dress. Normal party chatter, the kind that filled space without meaning anything.

I was leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing my second glass, when I felt someone watching me.

It wasn’t a guess. It was a sensation, a prickle at the back of my neck that made me look up. And there he was.

He stood on the other side of the room, half-leaning against the doorframe that led to the backyard. Tall and lean, with skin that looked like he spent his days in the sun. Dark hair fell over his forehead in messy waves, and his eyes, even from across the room, were striking. Hazel green, framed by lashes that were almost unfairly long. He had a smirk on his lips, like he knew something I didn’t, like he’d been waiting for me to notice him.

I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

For a long moment, we just stared at each other. The music faded into background noise. The laughter, the clinking glasses, the hum of conversation, all of it became static. There was only him, and the way his gaze traveled down my body slow and deliberate, like he was tasting me with his eyes.

I should have looked away. I should have turned back to my wine, found Jenna, made an excuse to leave. I was married. I had a ring on my finger, a husband in Chicago who loved me, a life that was comfortable and safe and good.

But I didn’t look away.

He pushed off the doorframe and started walking toward me.

He moved like he had all the time in the world, threading through the crowd with an easy grace that made him stand out. He was wearing a simple white t-shirt that clung to his chest and worn jeans that hung low on his hips. Nothing special. But on him, it looked like a statement.

He stopped a foot away from me, close enough that I could smell him. Soap and something underneath, warm and slightly musky. His smile widened, and up close, I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the slight curve of his lips that suggested he was always on the verge of a joke.

“You looked bored,” he said. His voice was low, rough around the edges. “I figured I should fix that.”

I raised an eyebrow, playing it cool even though my heart was hammering. “And how exactly were you planning to do that?”

He shrugged, his eyes never leaving mine. “I’m a man of many talents. I figured I’d start with a drink and see where it goes.”

I held up my glass. “I already have one.”

“Then I’ll get you another when that’s empty.” He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice. “Or I could get you something stronger. You look like the type who might need it.”

“The type?”

“The type who’s thinking too much.” He tilted his head, studying me. “You’ve got that look. Like you’re somewhere else, running through a list of reasons you shouldn’t be here.”

He was right. I hated that he was right. I’d been cataloging excuses in my head since I walked in, building a case for why I should leave. But hearing him say it out loud made me want to prove him wrong.

“Maybe I’m exactly where I want to be,” I said.

His smirk deepened. “Then stay.”

He didn’t push. He didn’t crowd me. He just stood there, easy and confident, waiting. And I found myself wanting to see what would happen if I stopped running through that list.

“I’m Tyler, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.

I took it. His palm was warm, his grip firm. “Brandie.”

“Brandie.” He said it like he was tasting it, drawing it out. “That’s a beautiful name.”

“It’s just a name.”

“No,” he said, his thumb brushing across my knuckles before he let go. “It’s not.”

We talked. Or rather, he talked and I listened, because he had a way of telling stories that made me forget where I was. He told me about the time he’d hitchhiked across the country with nothing but a backpack and a guitar he didn’t know how to play. About the summer he’d worked on a fishing boat in Alaska, how the cold had gotten into his bones and never really left. About the night he’d gotten lost in the desert and watched the stars spin overhead, convinced he was going to die, until a trucker found him at dawn.

He made it sound like an adventure. Like life was something to be grabbed by the throat and shaken until it gave you what you wanted.

I told him about my job, about the marketing firm where I spent my days staring at spreadsheets and pretending to care. I told him about the house, about the garden I’d planted in the backyard that was mostly weeds now. I didn’t tell him about Mark. Not at first. But the ring on my finger was heavy, and I could feel his eyes flick to it every now and then, filing away the information.

Finally, he said, “So. Husband.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Business trip,” I said. “Chicago.”

“How long?”

“A week.”

He nodded slowly, processing. “And he left you alone. In that dress.”

I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s not just a dress.” He stepped closer, and now there was barely a breath of space between us. “It’s a statement. It’s you saying, ‘I want to be seen.’ And I see you, Brandie.”

My throat went dry. I should have stepped back. I should have said something about being married, about loyalty, about the vows I’d made three years ago in a church that smelled like flowers and old wood.

But I didn’t.

“What do you want, Tyler?” I asked, and my voice came out lower than I intended, rougher.

He smiled, slow and dangerous. “I want to see how far that dress goes.”

I should have slapped him. I should have walked away. Instead, I laughed, a sound that surprised me, bright and sharp. “You’re bold.”

“I’m honest.” He reached out, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from my face. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a shiver down my spine. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Bold is saying something for the shock value. Honest is saying it because it’s true.” His hand dropped to his side. “I’m not trying to shock you, Brandie. I’m telling you what I want. What you do with that information is up to you.”

The ball was in my court. He’d made that clear. And I stood there, heart pounding, feeling the weight of the ring on my finger and the heat of his gaze on my skin.

I thought about Mark. About the way he kissed me goodnight, peck on the cheek, before rolling over to sleep. About the way he looked at his phone during dinner, nodding along to my stories without really hearing them. About the way I’d felt invisible for months, a ghost in my own life.

And then I thought about Tyler. About the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room.

“I’m married,” I said, but the words came out weak, like I was trying to convince myself.

“I know.” He didn’t flinch. “Doesn’t change what I want.”

“It should.”

“Why?” He tilted his head, genuinely curious. “Because some paperwork says you belong to someone else? That doesn’t mean you stop wanting. Stop needing.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because he was right. I did want. I did need. And I’d been starving for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like to be hungry.

“Come outside with me,” he said. “Just for a minute. Fresh air.”

It was a trap. I knew it was a trap. Every instinct told me to say no, to find Jenna, to go home and pour myself into bed and pretend tonight never happened.

But I was tired of pretending.

“One minute,” I said.

He smiled, and it was like watching the sun break through clouds.

He led me through the crowd, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. The touch was casual, but it burned. We passed Jenna, who raised an eyebrow at me, and I shook my head slightly, a silent don’t ask. She grinned and turned back to her conversation.

The backyard was quieter, the music muffled by the glass doors. The pool glowed blue-green, rippling in the breeze. A few people sat on lounge chairs, talking in low voices. Tyler guided me to a corner near the fence, where a tall hedge blocked us from view.

He turned to face me, and the smirk was gone. His eyes were serious now, searching mine.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he said. “I just wanted to get you alone. To see if the chemistry I felt inside was real.”

“And is it?”

He stepped closer. His hand came up to cup my jaw, tilting my face toward his. “Tell me to stop, and I will. Say the word, and I’ll walk away and pretend this never happened.”

I should have said it. I should have said stop.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I reached up and grabbed the front of his shirt, pulling him toward me. Our lips met, and it was like a match striking gasoline. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against mine, and I moaned into him, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. His hands found my waist, pulling me against him, and I felt the hard length of him pressing into my stomach.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “Jesus, Brandie.”

“Don’t stop,” I said. The words came out desperate, and I didn’t care.

He didn’t stop.

His mouth found my neck, trailing hot kisses down to my collarbone. His hands slid lower, gripping my hips, pulling me tighter against him. I arched into him, my head falling back, and the stars above us blurred into streaks of light.

“We can’t do this here,” I managed, though every cell in my body was screaming for more.

“My place,” he said against my skin. “Ten minutes away.”

I pulled back, looking at him. His eyes were dark, his lips swollen. He looked wrecked. He looked like he wanted to devour me.

And God help me, I wanted to be devoured.

“Okay,” I said.

He took my hand, and we slipped out through the side gate, into the cool night air. His car was an old pickup truck, dented and dusty, and he opened the passenger door for me like it was a limousine. I climbed in, and the seat smelled like him, warm and clean.

The drive was a blur. Streetlights flashed overhead. He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles on my skin. I watched his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck.

I thought about Mark again. I thought about the ring on my finger, heavy and accusing. I thought about the life I was supposed to be living, the promises I was breaking with every mile.

But I didn’t tell him to turn around.

His apartment was small, cluttered, lived-in. Books stacked on the floor, a guitar propped against the wall, dishes in the sink. It was a mess. It was real.

He kicked the door shut behind us and pulled me into his arms, kissing me again, deeper this time. His hands found the zipper of my dress, and he pulled it down slowly, deliberately, the sound loud in the quiet room.

The dress pooled at my feet. I stood before him in nothing but my heels and a black lace bra and panties, and he looked at me like I was a masterpiece.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and his voice was rough, reverent.

He swept me up into his arms, carrying me to the bedroom. He laid me down on the bed, the sheets cool against my skin, and then he was on top of me, his weight a comfort, a promise.

He kissed his way down my body, lips tracing the curve of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the inside of my thighs. I gasped, my hands fisting in his hair, and he looked up at me, his eyes dark and hungry.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he said. “I’m going to make you forget your own name.”

He was true to his word.

His mouth found me through the lace of my panties, and I cried out, my back arching off the bed. He pulled them down with his teeth, and then there was nothing between us but heat and need. He tasted me like I was something precious, something to be savored, and I shattered against his mouth, my fingers gripping the sheets, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

But he wasn’t done.

He stripped off his clothes, and I watched him, the lean muscle of his chest, the trail of hair leading down his stomach, the way he stood unashamed, confident in his own skin. He was beautiful, and I wanted him.

He entered me slowly, inch by inch, and I felt myself stretch around him, a fullness that made my eyes roll back. He moved with a rhythm that was both gentle and demanding, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath hot on my lips.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

I did. I looked into those hazel green eyes, and I saw something there that scared me. Not just lust. Not just hunger. A connection, raw and real.

He thrust deeper, and I stopped thinking.

Afterward, we lay tangled in the sheets, my head on his chest, his hand stroking my hair. The room was dark, lit only by the glow of the city through the window. I could hear his heartbeat, steady and strong, and I felt a calm I hadn’t felt in months.

“You’re thinking,” he said.

“I’m always thinking.”

“Stop.” He tilted my chin up, kissing me softly. “Just for tonight. Stop thinking.”

I closed my eyes and let myself float.

The alarm went off at 6 AM.

I woke with a start, disoriented, the unfamiliar ceiling and the warm body beside me snapping me back to reality. Mark. Chicago. The ring on my finger.

I sat up, my heart pounding. Tyler stirred beside me, mumbling something, and I reached for my dress, my heels, my purse. I dressed in the dark, my hands shaking.

“You’re leaving?”

His voice was soft, not accusatory. Just sad.

“I have to,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He sat up, the sheet falling to his waist. In the dim light, he looked like a dream, too good to be true. “Don’t be sorry. Not for this.”

I crossed to the bed, leaning down to kiss him one last time. It was sweet, tender, a goodbye.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“For what?”

“For making me feel alive.”

I left before he could respond.

The drive home was a blur. I pulled into the driveway, the house dark and silent. I let myself in, kicked off my heels, and stood in the living room, staring at the ghost of my life.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mark.

“Miss you. Can’t wait to see you Friday.”

I stared at the screen, the words blurring. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I typed “Miss you too,” then deleted it. I typed it again. Deleted it again.

Finally, I set the phone down without responding.

I walked to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. My hair was a mess. My lipstick was smeared. My eyes were bright, alive, guilty.

I turned on the shower and stepped in, letting the hot water wash away the scent of him.

But I knew, even as the water ran down the drain, that I wouldn’t forget.

I would never forget.

And I didn’t know if that was a blessing or a curse.