She saw him on a Wednesday. Late morning. Just before the lunch rush.
He came to her window—hers, specifically—and for a full second, she forgot how to breathe.
Chestnut-brown eyes. Warm. Still. The kind of eyes that didn't just look at you but seemed to notice something, like they'd caught you mid-thought and liked what they saw. He said thank you, and she said something back—maybe. She wasn't sure. Her voice betrayed her, breathy and uncertain, like it might say too much if she let it.
As soon as he turned away, she ducked her head and stared hard at her paperwork, hands trembling slightly. It wasn't just attraction—it was recognition. Of something she hadn't felt in years.
She didn't see him again that day. Or the next.
But she replayed it, over and over. The way he smiled. The shape of his mouth when he spoke. She wondered if he held eye contact like that in conversation. If he listened well. If he touched gently.
She wasn't the type to daydream. She was practical. Predictable. She meal-prepped on Sundays and had a standing dentist appointment every six months. But something about that brief exchange had burrowed under her skin. And it stayed there.
That weekend, while her husband trimmed the hedges and their kids argued in the background, she caught herself thinking about the man from the bank. Not about running away. Not about cheating. Just… a kiss. Something unexpected. Something that didn't come scheduled between school pickups and meal plans.
They tried to be close that night. He kissed her neck, the way he always did, and murmured something sweet and sleepy. But she felt numb. Like her body had folded itself into autopilot while her mind drifted elsewhere.
"You okay?" he asked softly.
She nodded.
"Sure?"
"I'm fine." She smiled, because what else do you say when the life you built still looks good from the outside?
Later, when he was already snoring and the house had gone still, she ran a bath. Just hot water and quiet. No expectations. No pretending.
She sank in slowly, her limbs heavy with something she couldn't name. The steam curled around her face, her hair floated out in soft strands, and for the first time in days, she let herself feel something.
She imagined him again—Not-Kent, she called him now. The stranger with the steady eyes. This time he wasn't behind glass. He was closer. Leaning over the rim of the tub, his fingertips brushing her collarbone like a secret.
Her breath hitched.
She touched her own arm, lightly, the way she imagined he might. Traced her hand down the center of her stomach, not with urgency but reverence. Not because she was lonely. But because she wanted to remember what it felt like to be awake in her own skin.
The water rippled with her movements. Her cheeks flushed. Her lips parted—not from pleasure exactly, but from the quiet, aching relief of feeling again.
It wasn't overwhelming. Just warm. Gentle. Hers.
She stayed in the tub until the heat faded, then wrapped herself in a towel and stood in front of the mirror. She didn't look any different. But something behind her eyes had shifted. A softness. A glow. Like a pilot light had flickered back to life.
She slipped back into bed without waking him. Her hair was still damp. Her skin smelled like lavender. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like she was disappearing.