The car smells of travel sweets and wet coats. Sam’s hand rests on the gearstick, his thumb tapping against the plastic in time with a song I don’t recognise from the radio. The sat nav announces our arrival in five hundred metres, and I feel my stomach drop and tighten at the same time, the way it does before a plunge.
“Right then,” Sam says, slowing as we pass the security barrier. “The great family experiment.”
“It’ll be fun.” I hear how thin my voice sounds, how bright. “The kids will love it.”
“The kids being the only ones who actually sleep.” He grins, but it’s tired. We’ve been driving for nearly five hours. My back aches. My legs ache. And somewhere in this forest, in the lodge we’re about to share, Bradley is already here.
The car park is a scattering of vehicles, families unloading bags, children running between bumpers. I spot Emma’s car first, the one with the dented bumper and the “Baby on Board” sign that’s been there since Lily was born. My mouth goes dry. I pick up my phone from the cup holder, check for messages—nothing new—and slide it into my pocket before Sam can see the screen.
We grab our bags and walk the short path to the lodge. It’s a two-storey wooden building, tucked among pine trees, with a deck and a hot tub steaming in the cold October air. I can already hear Ben’s voice shouting from inside, running footsteps on wooden floors. The door is open, and Emma stands there in a thick cardigan, her hair pulled back, already holding a list.
“You made it!” She hugs me, her cheek cold against mine. “We’ve been here an hour. The lodge is perfect. Kitchen’s decent. Amy and Max are in the bedroom upstairs.” She turns and calls over her shoulder: “Bradley, can you take Laura’s bag? She’s got the back room with Sam.”
Bradley appears from the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel. He’s wearing a faded grey hoodie, the one with the frayed cuffs I remember from Christmas. Our eyes meet for less than a second—barely a blink—but I feel the recognition pass between us like a thread pulled tight. He takes my bag without a word, brushes past me close enough that I smell his deodorant, and disappears down the hall.
I stand in the doorway, letting the cold air cool my face. Sam pushes past with the cooler bag, already heading for the fridge. “Come on, Laura. Let’s get the food sorted.”
The next hour is a blur of unpacking, meeting in the living area, deciding who sleeps where. Sam and I get the back room—a double bed pushed against the wall, a set of patio doors leading out to the deck. The curtains are thin, letting in the last of the afternoon light. Bradley and Emma have the master bedroom upstairs. I picture them in that bed, and the thought sits in my chest like a stone, cold and heavy.
We gather for dinner at the big table: Emma at the head, serving pasta from a giant pot, Ben and Lily fighting over the garlic bread, Amy asking about the swimming times, Max scrolling through his phone. Bradley sits opposite me. Every time I look up, he’s either looking at Emma or at his plate. But once, when everyone is laughing at something Ben said, his gaze slides to mine, and he holds it for a heartbeat longer than safe. Heat flushes through me, starting at my collarbone and spreading down. I drop my eyes first.
Later, after the kids are bathed and the adults have had a glass of wine, we sit on the deck wrapped in blankets around the hot tub. Steam rises into the dark. Emma is talking about the plans for tomorrow—sub-tropical swimming paradise, bike hire, maybe the zip wire. I nod and smile, but I’m acutely aware of Bradley’s silence. He sits at the far end of the bench, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea, staring into the trees.
When the cold drives us inside, we say goodnight. I lie in the double bed next to Sam, the patio door open a crack, listening to the night sounds. Sam’s breathing evens out within minutes, his arm heavy across my waist. I shift, trying to find space, and my phone vibrates on the nightstand.
Bradley: I can’t believe you’re actually here. In the same building.
Me: Me neither. It’s torture.
Bradley: Tomorrow. We’ll find a way.
I don’t ask how. I just type back: I know.
The next three days pass in a strange, suspended rhythm. The family moves through the park like a single organism—breakfast, swim, lunch, walk, dinner, bed. I learn the shape of Bradley’s shoulder from across the dinner table. I memorize the way he laughs at Ben’s jokes, the way he lifts Lily onto his lap, the way he touches Emma’s arm when she speaks. Each small gesture is a private alphabet, and I read every letter.
Stolen moments become currency. A glance in the queue for the water slide. His hand brushing mine when we reach for the same cup in the kitchen. A whispered sentence in the hallway when everyone else is watching the kids: “I can’t stop thinking about you.” The words burn in my ear for hours.
By the fourth evening, the tension is unbearable. We’ve had no privacy—not a single minute alone. I watch him from across the sofa, watching a film none of us are paying attention to, and the need in me is a physical ache. I press my thighs together, feel the familiar stirring, and I’m grateful for the dim light. Beside me, Sam’s hand rests on my knee, casual, absent. I don’t pull away. I can’t.
That night, I lie awake until Sam’s breathing becomes deep and even. His arm is draped over my hip, his cheek pressed to my shoulder. I count his breaths. I wait. The house settles—the creaking stops, the last light goes off upstairs. Then my phone buzzes, a single word: Outside?
I slip out from under Sam’s arm as carefully as I’ve ever done anything. He stirs, mutters something, turns over. I freeze, my heart hammering. His breathing settles again. I pull on my swimsuit under my dressing gown, and open the patio door as quietly as I can. The deck is wet with dew, the hot tub still running, a low hum. Bradley is already there, sitting on the edge, his feet in the water. He turns when he hears me, and even in the dark, I can see the relief in his posture.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says, his voice low.
“I thought you’d chicken out.”
“No chance.” He stands, reaches for my hand. His fingers are cold, then they’re laced with mine, and the shock of touch—real touch—makes my breath catch. “The water’s warm. They’ll all be asleep for hours.”
“Sam’s asleep,” I whisper. “I had to wait until he was out.”
His eyes flick toward the darkened patio door. “Is he—?”
“He didn’t wake up.” I hope I sound more certain than I feel.
I slip off my dressing gown and step into the hot tub. The heat hits my legs, my waist, my chest, shocking and delicious. The jets churn around me, steam rising into the October night. Bradley follows, settling opposite me, the water up to his chest. In the dark, his face is all shadows.
“This is insane,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” He moves closer, the water sloshing gently. “But I don’t care.”
His hand finds my leg under the water, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my thigh. I reach out, touch his chest, feel the soft hair, the thud of his heart under my palm. The swimsuit I’m wearing is a full one-piece, dark blue, practical—the kind you wear to a family pool. But his hand finds the strap at my shoulder, pulls it down, and I let him.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
Instead of answering, I reach down and pull the swimsuit aside, exposing myself to the warm water and his gaze. He makes a low sound in his throat, and then he’s pressed against me, his mouth on mine, careful and hungry at the same time. I taste mint and tea and him. His hand slides down, finds me, and I gasp against his lips.
“Quiet,” he breathes, but the word is a plea, not a command.
I bite my lip, nod. The water moves around us as he adjusts, his hand guiding himself. Then there’s the slow, deep push of him inside me, and I have to press my face against his shoulder to keep from crying out. The water is warm, but he is hotter. He moves slowly, carefully, his forehead against mine, his breath ragged.
“Christ, Laura,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I’ve been dying for this.”
I wrap my legs around him, pull him deeper. The jets mask the small sounds of our bodies meeting—the wet slap, the desperate breaths. Every creak of the lodge, every gust of wind that rattles the deck, sends a spike of fear through me. But the fear only sharpens the pleasure, makes every second feel borrowed, stolen, precious.
He’s close, I can feel it in the way his hand grips my hip, the way his rhythm falters. “Not yet,” I manage, but it’s too late. He shudders against me, a strangled sound barely escaping his throat. A moment later, I follow, the wave crashing through me, and I bite his shoulder to keep silent.
We stay tangled, the water cooling around us. He kisses my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth. “I don’t want this to end,” he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
“It won’t.” I pull back just enough to see his face. “But we need to go back inside before Sam notices.”
He nods, reluctantly. We untangle, adjust our swimsuits, step out into the cold air. He wraps his dressing gown around me before his own, and the gesture undoes me more than the sex did. I look at him, wet, shivering, and I want to say something that captures all of this—the risk, the need, the impossibility—but the words won’t come.
“Same time tomorrow?” he asks, and the hope in his voice cracks something open in my chest.
“Same time.”
He disappears into the lodge before me, a shadow among shadows. I stand on the deck for a long moment, the steam still rising, the night air cold on my wet skin. Then I slip back through the patio door, easing it shut behind me. The room is dark. Sam hasn’t moved. I slide into the bed, the sheets cold against my damp skin. He stirs, mumbles something, and pulls me closer. I let him, my heart still pounding, my body still warm from Bradley.
I lie there in the dark next to my husband, and I feel the weight of what I’ve done settle over me like a second skin. Tomorrow, we will have to be careful. Tomorrow, we will have to pretend again. But tonight, in the dark, with the memory of Bradley’s body against mine, I let myself feel it: the terrifying, beautiful weight of what we’ve started.
The door is no longer just a dream. It’s open. And I’m already walking through.
I wake to the sound of Lily crying somewhere upstairs, her wail cutting through the thin morning light like a blade. Sam’s arm is still around me, his breathing slow and even. For a moment, I don’t know where I am—the bed is too narrow, the ceiling too low—and then it all floods back: the hot tub, his hands, the taste of mint and tea and him. I press my thighs together, feel the phantom ache of him still between them, and I have to close my eyes against the weight of it.
My phone shows a message from Bradley, sent at 4:47 AM: Can’t sleep. Keep smelling you on my skin.
I type back: Me neither. We need to be careful today.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then: I know.
I shower quickly, scrubbing the chlorine from my hair, trying to erase any evidence of last night. The swimsuit is hanging over the radiator, still damp, and I stuff it to the bottom of my bag before anyone can see it. When I emerge into the kitchen, Emma is already at the stove, flipping pancakes, her hair in a messy bun, looking tired but content.
The car smells of travel sweets and wet coats. Sam's hand rests on the gearstick, his thumb tapping against the plastic in time with a song I don't recognise from the radio. The sat nav announces our arrival in five hundred metres, and I feel my stomach drop and tighten at the same time, the way it does before a plunge.
"Right then," Sam says, slowing as we pass the security barrier. "The great family experiment."
"It'll be fun." I hear how thin my voice sounds, how bright. "The kids will love it."
"The kids being the only ones who actually sleep." He grins, but it's tired. We've been driving for nearly five hours. My back aches. My legs ache. And somewhere in this forest, in the lodge we're about to share, Bradley is already here.
The car park is a scattering of vehicles, families unloading bags, children running between bumpers. I spot Emma's car first, the one with the dented bumper and the "Baby on Board" sign that's been there since Lily was born. My mouth goes dry. I pick up my phone from the cup holder, check for messages—nothing new—and slide it into my pocket before Sam can see the screen.
We grab our bags and walk the short path to the lodge. It's a two-storey wooden building, tucked among pine trees, with a deck and a hot tub steaming in the cold October air. I can already hear Ben's voice shouting from inside, running footsteps on wooden floors. The door is open, and Emma stands there in a thick cardigan, her hair pulled back, already holding a list.
"You made it!" She hugs me, her cheek cold against mine. "We've been here an hour. The lodge is perfect. Kitchen's decent. Amy and Max are in the bedroom upstairs." She turns and calls over her shoulder: "Bradley, can you take Laura's bag? She's got the ground floor room with Sam."
Bradley appears from the kitchen, drying his hands on a tea towel. He's wearing a faded grey hoodie, the one with the frayed cuffs I remember from Christmas. Our eyes meet for less than a second—barely a blink—but I feel the recognition pass between us like a thread pulled tight. He takes my bag without a word, brushes past me close enough that I smell his deodorant, and disappears down the hall.
I stand in the doorway, letting the cold air cool my face. Sam pushes past with the cooler bag, already heading for the fridge. "Come on, Laura. Let's get the food sorted."
The next hour is a blur of unpacking, meeting in the living area, deciding who sleeps where. The ground floor room has a double bed and a patio door that opens directly onto the deck. Bradley and Emma have the master bedroom upstairs. I picture them in that bed, and the thought sits in my chest like a stone, cold and heavy. But the patio door—the patio door is mine. Bradley and Emma have the master bedroom upstairs. I picture them in that bed, and the thought sits in my chest like a stone, cold and heavy.
We gather for dinner at the big table: Emma at the head, serving pasta from a giant pot, Ben and Lily fighting over the garlic bread, Amy asking about the swimming times, Max scrolling through his phone. Bradley sits opposite me. Every time I look up, he's either looking at Emma or at his plate. But once, when everyone is laughing at something Ben said, his gaze slides to mine, and he holds it for a heartbeat longer than safe. Heat flushes through me, starting at my collarbone and spreading down. I drop my eyes first.
Later, after the kids are bathed and the adults have had a glass of wine, we sit on the deck wrapped in blankets around the hot tub. Steam rises into the dark. Emma is talking about the plans for tomorrow—sub-tropical swimming paradise, bike hire, maybe the zip wire. I nod and smile, but I'm acutely aware of Bradley's silence. He sits at the far end of the bench, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea, staring into the trees.
When the cold drives us inside, we say goodnight. I lie in the ground floor room, Sam already under the duvet, scrolling through his phone. The patio door is closed but the curtain is thin, and I can see the faint glow of the hot tub through the fabric. My phone vibrates on the nightstand.
Bradley: I can't believe you're actually here. In the same building.
Me: Me neither. It's torture.
Bradley: Tomorrow. We'll find a way.
I don't ask how. I just type back: I know.
Sam rolls over, his hand finding my hip. "You alright? You seem distracted."
"Just tired." I put the phone face-down on the nightstand. "Long drive."
He kisses my shoulder, settles against me. I lie still, listening to his breathing slow, feeling the weight of his arm across my waist. The guilt is a physical thing, pressing down on my chest. But beneath it, there's something else—a current of anticipation, hot and dangerous, that I can't switch off no matter how hard I try.
The next three days pass in a strange, suspended rhythm. The family moves through the park like a single organism—breakfast, swim, lunch, walk, dinner, bed. I learn the shape of Bradley's shoulder from across the dinner table. I memorize the way he laughs at Ben's jokes, the way he lifts Lily onto his lap, the way he touches Emma's arm when she speaks. Each small gesture is a private alphabet, and I read every letter.
Stolen moments become currency. A glance in the queue for the water slide. His hand brushing mine when we reach for the same cup in the kitchen. A whispered sentence in the hallway when everyone else is watching the kids: "I can't stop thinking about you." The words burn in my ear for hours.
By the fourth evening, the tension is unbearable. We've had no privacy—not a single minute alone. I watch him from across the sofa, watching a film none of us are paying attention to, and the need in me is a physical ache. I press my thighs together, feel the familiar stirring, and I'm grateful for the dim light. Next to me on the sofa, Sam's hand rests on my knee, casual, possessive. I don't pull away. I can't afford to.
That night, I lie awake until I hear Sam's breathing shift into the slow, even rhythm of sleep. His arm is heavy across my stomach. I wait, counting his breaths, feeling the minutes crawl past. Then I slide out from under his arm, holding my breath, and my feet meet the cold floor. The patio door opens with barely a click. The deck is wet with dew, the hot tub still running, a low hum. Bradley is already there, sitting on the edge, his feet in the water. He turns when he hears me, and even in the dark, I can see the relief in his posture.
"I didn't think you'd come," he says, his voice low.
"I thought you'd chicken out."
"No chance." He stands, reaches for my hand. His fingers are cold, then they're laced with mine, and the shock of touch—real touch—makes my breath catch. "The water's warm. They'll all be asleep for hours."
"Sam's asleep," I whisper. "I had to wait until he was out."
His eyes flick toward the darkened patio door. "Is he—?"
"He didn't wake up." I hope I sound more certain than I feel.
I slip off my dressing gown and step into the hot tub. The heat hits my legs, my waist, my chest, shocking and delicious. The jets churn around me, steam rising into the October night. Bradley follows, settling opposite me, the water up to his chest. In the dark, his face is all shadows.
"This is insane," I whisper.
"Yeah." He moves closer, the water sloshing gently. "But I don't care."
His hand finds my leg under the water, his thumb tracing a slow circle on my thigh. I reach out, touch his chest, feel the soft hair, the thud of his heart under my palm. The swimsuit I'm wearing is a full one-piece, dark blue, practical—the kind you wear to a family pool. But his hand finds the strap at my shoulder, pulls it down, and I let him.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
Instead of answering, I reach down and pull the swimsuit aside, exposing myself to the warm water and his gaze. He makes a low sound in his throat, and then he's pressed against me, his mouth on mine, careful and hungry at the same time. I taste mint and tea and him. His hand slides down, finds me, and I gasp against his lips.
"Quiet," he breathes, but the word is a plea, not a command.
I bite my lip, nod. The water moves around us as he adjusts, his hand guiding himself. Then there's the slow, deep push of him inside me, and I have to press my face against his shoulder to keep from crying out. The water is warm, but he is hotter. He moves slowly, carefully, his forehead against mine, his breath ragged.
"Christ, Laura," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I've been dying for this."
I wrap my legs around him, pull him deeper. The jets mask the small sounds of our bodies meeting—the wet slap, the desperate breaths. Every creak of the lodge, every gust of wind that rattles the deck, sends a spike of fear through me. But the fear only sharpens the pleasure, makes every second feel borrowed, stolen, precious.
He's close, I can feel it in the way his hand grips my hip, the way his rhythm falters. "Not yet," I manage, but it's too late. He shudders against me, a strangled sound barely escaping his throat. A moment later, I follow, the wave crashing through me, and I bite his shoulder to keep silent.
We stay tangled, the water cooling around us. He kisses my forehead, my temple, the corner of my mouth. "I don't want this to end," he says, so quietly I almost miss it.
"It won't." I pull back just enough to see his face. "But we need to go back inside before someone notices."
He nods, reluctantly. We untangle, adjust our swimsuits, step out into the cold air. He wraps his dressing gown around me before his own, and the gesture undoes me more than the sex did. I look at him, wet, shivering, and I want to say something that captures all of this—the risk, the need, the impossibility—but the words won't come.
"Same time tomorrow?" he asks, and the hope in his voice cracks something open in my chest.
"Same time."
He disappears into the lodge before me, a shadow among shadows. I stand on the deck for a long moment, the steam still rising, the night air cold on my wet skin. Then I slip back through the patio door, easing it shut behind me. The room is dark. Sam hasn't moved. I slide into the bed, the sheets cold against my damp skin. He stirs, mumbles something, and pulls me closer. I let him, my heart still pounding, my body still warm from Bradley.
I lie there in the dark next to my husband, and I feel the weight of what I've done settle over me like a second skin. Tomorrow, we will have to be careful. Tomorrow, we will have to pretend again. But tonight, in the dark, with the memory of Bradley's body against mine, I let myself feel it: the terrifying, beautiful weight of what we've started.
The door is no longer just a dream. It's open. And I'm already walking through.
I wake to the sound of Lily crying somewhere upstairs, her wail cutting through the thin morning light like a blade. Sam's arm is still around me, his breathing slow and even. For a moment, I don't know where I am—the bed is too narrow, the ceiling too low—and then it all floods back: the hot tub, his hands, the taste of mint and tea and him. I press my thighs together, feel the phantom ache of him still between them, and I have to close my eyes against the weight of it. Beside me, Sam shifts, his hand finding my hip in his sleep, and I freeze. But he doesn't wake.
My phone shows a message from Bradley, sent at 4:47 AM: Can't sleep. Keep smelling you on my skin.
I type back: Me neither. We need to be careful today.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then: I know.
I shower quickly, scrubbing the chlorine from my hair, trying to erase any evidence of last night. The swimsuit is hanging over the radiator, still damp, and I stuff it to the bottom of my bag before anyone can see it. When I emerge into the kitchen, Emma is already at the stove, flipping pancakes, her hair in a messy bun, looking tired but content.
"Morning, sleepyhead," she says, not turning around. "There's coffee in the pot. Bradley's taken the kids to the breakfast buffet—I needed a quiet start."
"Sounds nice." I pour myself a coffee, my hands steady even though my insides are not. "Need any help?"
"You can set the table. Amy and Max are still in bed, lazy sods." She laughs, and the sound is so ordinary, so sisterly, that guilt lances through me, sharp and immediate. I turn away, focus on the plates, the cutlery, the simple mechanics of not falling apart.
Bradley returns with the kids twenty minutes later, Lily still in her pyjamas, Ben already talking about the swimming pool. He doesn't look at me—not directly—but I feel his presence in the room like a second heartbeat. He ruffles Ben's hair, pours himself a coffee, sits at the far end of the table. Normal. Careful. Perfect.
The day unfolds like the ones before it: swimming, lunch, a walk through the forest. But everything is different now. Every glance carries a secret. Every accidental touch is a loaded gun. At the pool, I watch him lift Lily onto his shoulders, and I remember the weight of him above me, the way his breath broke against my neck. I have to submerge myself in the water to cool the flush spreading across my chest.
That night, we wait until the lodge is silent. I lie beside Sam, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the exact moment his body relaxes into sleep. The same careful slide out from under his arm. The same click of the patio door. The same steam rising into the cold October air. But this time, when I step into the hot tub, he doesn't wait. He pulls me onto his lap, his mouth finding mine immediately, desperate and hungry.
"I thought about you all day," he says against my lips. "Every second."
"Me too." My hands find the hem of his swim shorts under the water. "I couldn't concentrate on anything."
"You think I could?" He laughs, a low, broken sound. "Emma asked me what was wrong three times. I told her I was tired."
I kiss him to stop him talking, to stop thinking about Emma, about the lies, about the bed they share upstairs. His hands find my waist, my hips, pulling me closer. The water sloshes gently around us, and I feel the familiar heat building, the ache that only he can reach.
"We can't do this every night," I whisper, even as I shift against him. "Someone will notice."
"I know." He rests his forehead against mine. "But I don't know how to stop."
"Maybe we don't have to stop." The words leave my mouth before I can catch them. "Maybe we just need to be smarter."
He pulls back, searching my face in the dark. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" I hesitate, the risk of the words settling in my chest. "After this week. We need to find a way to meet properly. Not like this. Not stolen minutes in the dark while our partners sleep twenty feet away."
"You mean a hotel."
"I mean a night. A whole night. No family, no risk of someone walking in. Just us."
He's quiet for a long moment. The jets hum. A bird calls somewhere in the dark. Then he says, "I'll figure something out."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He kisses me again, softer this time. "But tonight, I just want you."
And I let him have me. The water moves around us as he lifts me, guides me, fills me. I bite his shoulder to keep quiet, and he buries his face in my neck, and we move together in the dark, a secret rhythm beneath the steam and the stars. When it's over, we stay tangled, neither of us ready to let go.
"Tomorrow's our last night," he says, his voice barely audible.
"I know."
"I don't want to waste it."
"We won't." I kiss his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "We'll make it count."
We separate reluctantly, climb out into the cold, wrap ourselves in our dressing gowns. He touches my face before he goes inside, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "Same time," he says.
"Same time."
I watch him disappear into the lodge, and I stand on the deck for a long moment, the steam still rising, the cold settling into my bones. Then I slip back through the patio door, ease it shut, and slide into bed beside Sam. He turns in his sleep, his arm finding my waist, pulling me close. I let him. I lie there in the dark, still warm from the water, from Bradley, and I know that this week has already rewritten everything.
Tomorrow, we will have to be careful. Tomorrow, we will have to pretend again. But tonight, in the dark next to my husband, with the memory of Bradley's body still aching inside mine, I let myself feel it: the terrifying, beautiful weight of what we've started. And the promise of a whole night—a real night—hangs between us like a thread I'm already pulling.