It started simply enough. Eye contact for a little too long. Sexy jokes. That intoxicating smirk he had. Blushing, just a shade too dark to be purely platonic.
Then one day he came over looking for my husband who was, thankfully, at an appointment with the baby. Who knew when they would be back, but I invited him to wait. After all, we were friends too.
At first we sat on opposite ends of the couch, playing Battlefield and talking shit like we always did. He teased me about losing by default for being a woman. “In your dreams,” I shot back. I’m not sure either of us knows when exactly it happened, but next thing we knew our thighs were practically touching. I could feel the heat radiating off his leg.
I felt myself flush at the realization and bit my lip, hoping he didn’t notice. Why did he have to wear such tight shirts? It was like he wanted me to look. And I did. Every time. Jail had been good to him. Nothing else to do but exercise, I guess. I had missed him though.