The snow began to fall earlier than expected, thick flakes swirling against the December sky as Emma pushed her brown hair back from her face, folding her arms across her chest - a habit she’d developed years ago when she realized how much attention her figure drew. Her reflection in the window showed what others saw first: a girl-next-door beauty with warm brown eyes and curves that her sweater did little to disguise. She stared out the living room window, trying to focus on the weather rather than her frustration with Greg.

“People always panic over nothing,” he’d muttered over his coffee that morning. “We’ll be fine.”

Emma’s jaw tightened as she glanced over at him now, sitting on the couch with his laptop balanced precariously on his knees, furrowing his brow at an Excel spreadsheet. His version of “preparing” had been emailing his boss to confirm he could work remotely during the storm. Meanwhile, she’d been the one to double-check the pantry, gather flashlights, and fill the bathtub with water “just in case.”

Always just in case. Always her job.

She rubbed her temples, her irritation blending with something deeper, something she didn’t want to name. It wasn’t just about the storm. It never was.

A knock at the door startled her, the sound sharp against the rising wind. Before Greg even looked up, she was already heading for it, eager for a distraction. When she opened the door, the cold hit her like a slap, and there stood Ryan, his former linebacker’s build filling the doorframe. His shaggy brown hair was dusted with snow, and those striking green eyes seemed to take in everything about her at once. The beard he’d grown since graduating high school only emphasized his strong jaw, making him look older than his twenty years.

Emma forced herself to look away, especially when she caught herself comparing his muscular frame to Greg’s lean runner’s build. Her husband stood behind her now, all angles and sharp lines where Ryan was solid strength.

“Hey, Mrs. Langston,” Ryan said, his grin easy, his breath fogging in the icy air. He stood there in a flannel jacket, gloves slung over his shoulder, looking every bit the confident 20-year-old he was. The kind of man who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.

“Hi, Ryan.” She forced herself to smile, though her stomach tightened. There was always something about him—the way he carried himself, like the world bent just slightly to accommodate him. “What are you doing out in this weather?”

“Just making rounds, making sure everyone’s ready,” Ryan said, shifting his weight. “My folks headed out to my aunt’s place ahead of the storm, but I stayed back. Figured the neighbors might need help.”

“That’s ... very thoughtful of you,” Emma said, aware of how her sweater pulled across her chest as she crossed her arms against the cold. She caught the quick flicker of Ryan’s gaze, the way his eyes lingered for just a heartbeat too long, and felt heat rise to her cheeks.

“We’re fine, thanks,” Greg called from the couch, not bothering to look up.

Emma ignored the flicker of embarrassment she felt. “I think we’re good, but thanks for checking in.”

“Sure,” Ryan said, but his gaze lingered, flicking past her shoulder. “You need anything? Firewood? Shoveling? This storm’s gonna hit hard, and you don’t wanna get caught off guard.”

Emma hesitated. Their woodpile was pitiful—Greg had insisted they wouldn’t need it—but she didn’t want to admit that. Before she could respond, Greg finally shut his laptop and ambled over, his shoulders hunched against the cold draft.

“We’re fine,” Greg said, his voice thin, almost defensive. “We’ve got plenty of supplies.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, just thought I’d offer. But if you change your mind, I’ll be chopping some wood for my folks. I can bring a few logs over if you want.”

“That’s kind of you, Ryan,” Emma interjected, stepping between them. The tension between the two men, subtle as it was, made her skin prickle. “If it’s not too much trouble, maybe a little extra firewood wouldn’t hurt.”

“Of course,” Ryan said, his grin widening, and she felt her face flush. “I’ll drop some by in an hour or so.”

Later, after Ryan left with his promise of firewood, Greg’s voice had an edge she rarely heard. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Butterflies began to flutter in Emma’s stomach, but she dismissed them. “He’s just being neighborly.”

“Neighborly?” Greg’s laugh was sharp. “Emma, you’re not naive. The way you were talking to him...” He shook his head, turning back to his laptop. “Just be careful. You might give him the wrong idea.”

She wanted to argue, but part of her thrilled at the thought - that someone like Ryan, young and virile, might see her that way. It had been so long since Greg had looked at her with that kind of hunger, since he’d shown any interest in the little secrets she kept, like the nipple piercings she’d gotten in a moment of rebellion before their marriage. Now they were just another part of her that he overlooked.

By the time Ryan returned, the snow had thickened, blanketing the driveway in a smooth, unbroken sheet. Emma watched him through the window as he carried an armload of logs, his broad shoulders straining against his jacket. Greg was in the kitchen, fumbling with the generator manual, muttering curses under his breath.

Ryan set the logs down carefully by the fireplace, his t-shirt riding up to reveal abs that looked carved from stone. Emma caught herself staring and quickly looked away, but not before she saw the knowing smile that played at the corners of his mouth.

“Appreciate it,” Greg said stiffly, his own tall, lean frame somehow seeming less substantial next to Ryan’s bulk.

“No problem, Mrs. Langston,” Ryan replied, and the way he said her name made her shiver. “Always happy to help a neighbor in need.”

The double meaning hung in the air between them, and Emma felt her face flush. When Greg’s hand found her waist, his grip was just a little too tight, too possessive.

“Anyway,” Ryan ran his fingers through his snow covered hair, his gaze sweeping over Emma. “You guys set up the generator yet? You’re probably gonna lose power soon.”

Greg’s jaw tightened. He saw the way Ryan was looking at his wife. She may be too innocent to see it, but he wasn’t. “I was just about to.”

Emma bit the inside of her cheek, sensing the subtle edge in Greg’s voice. “Greg’s great with that kind of thing,” she said, trying to diffuse the tension.

Ryan’s eyes lingered on her for another long second before turning away. “Good to hear. Wouldn’t want to be caught with your pants down.” Emma felt heat crawl up her neck. She couldn’t tell if he was being polite or mocking. “Anyway, if you need anything else, just holler. I’ll be around.”

“Thanks again,” Emma said, and she almost thought she saw his gaze dip to her waist before he nodded and stepped back into the snow.

The power went out just after sunset, plunging the house into an eerie quiet. Emma lit candles while Greg grumbled over the generator, which still wasn’t running. The heat was already starting to fade, the walls of the house seeping cold.

When Ryan showed up again, it was nearly dark. His jacket was dusted with snow, and his breath came in quick bursts, like he’d been exerting himself.

“Chopping more wood,” he explained, grinning. “Figured I’d check on you guys. Having generator trouble?”

Emma glanced at Greg, who was fumbling with the manual again, his face red with frustration. “We’re ... managing,” Greg muttered.

“Mind if I take a look?” Ryan offered, already shrugging off his jacket. The thermal shirt underneath clung to his broad chest, damp with sweat despite the cold. “I fixed up a few of these last summer.”

Greg’s jaw worked, but after a moment he gestured stiffly toward the utility room. “Be my guest.”

Emma couldn’t help but watch as Ryan knelt beside the generator. His thermal shirt rode up as he leaned forward, revealing a strip of tanned skin and the sharp cut of muscle above his hip. When he reached for the panel, his biceps strained against the fabric, and Emma found herself wondering how those arms would feel, she pushed the thought away, but her core tightened traitorously.

Every movement was precise, confident, masculine in a way that made her mouth go dry. He worked with the kind of assured competence Greg never showed with mechanical things, strong hands moving purposefully over metal and wires. “Ah, here’s your problem,” he said, looking up through those thick lashes, and Emma realized she’d been staring at the way his beard emphasized his jaw. “The spark plug’s fouled.” He glanced at Greg, who stood awkwardly to the side, and Emma felt a guilty twist in her stomach. “Got any tools?”

The sight of Ryan working made her previous composure slip. Where Greg’s body spoke of distance runs and careful restraint, Ryan radiated a raw physicality that demanded attention. Every twist of his torso, each confident motion of those work-roughened hands sent a shiver of awareness through her that she couldn’t, didn’t want to, suppress. When his eyes caught hers this time, she let her arms fall to her sides, no longer hiding from his gaze. Her heart thundered in her chest, and she felt the weight of his attention like a physical touch. The heat building inside her had nothing to do with the generator he was fixing and everything to do with the knowing half-smile that played across his lips.

Twenty minutes later, the generator hummed to life. Ryan stood, wiping his hands on his jeans, that easy smile playing on his lips. “Should hold now. Mind if warm up for a second? It’s brutal out there.”

“Of course,” Emma said quickly, earning a sharp look from Greg. “The bathroom’s upstairs if you want to rinse off. I can grab you a towel.”

“Thanks,” Ryan said, his green eyes meeting hers with an intensity that made her stomach flip. He slipped off his boots and headed for the stairs.

Emma didn’t wait for Greg’s response as she followed, grabbing a clean towel from the linen closet. When she knocked on the bathroom door, it was ajar, steam already curling out. She hesitated, but Ryan’s voice called out casually, “Come on in. I don’t mind.”

She pushed the door open slightly, just enough to pass the towel through, but then her eyes caught movement. Ryan was stepping into the shower, pulling the curtain halfway closed, and for a moment, she saw him. All of him. The muscled planes of his back, the tight curve of his buttocks, and when he turned slightly—

Her breath hitched. She hadn’t meant to look, but she couldn’t stop herself. The steam blurred the details, but not enough to hide the size of him, the sheer physicality that made her stomach tighten and her pulse race. It wasn’t just his body, it was the confidence, the unspoken awareness that he knew exactly how to wield what he had.

Just before she turned away, she caught his reflection in the mirror. His eyes met hers through the steam, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. He’d seen her looking. Had wanted her to look.

She turned sharply, the towel clutched in her hand, and hurried out, her face burning. In her bedroom, she sat on the edge of the bed, her mind racing. The image of him lingered, vivid and undeniable, and she hated herself for the way her body reacted. The way her breasts felt heavy and sensitive, the piercings Greg never noticed anymore suddenly achingly aware of every brush of fabric.

Through the walls, she could hear Greg still cursing at the manual downstairs, his frustration echoing up the stairwell. He was always more comfortable with spreadsheets than anything requiring real strength or skill. The sound faded beneath the steady drumming of the shower, and Emma found her gaze drawn back to the bathroom door. Steam still curled beneath it, carrying with it the memory of Ryan’s knowing smile, the way his eyes had held hers in the mirror. Her body hummed with an electricity she’d almost forgotten she could feel, a current of desire that made every nerve ending spark to life.

She pressed her thighs together, trying to quiet the ache building there. It had been so long since she’d felt this way. So long since anyone had made her feel this way. The contrast between the man downstairs and the one behind that door made her feel something she hadn’t experienced in years.

Alive. Desperately, dangerously alive.

The storm howled louder as Emma descended the stairs, each step weighted with anticipation and desire. Wind battered the windows, making the house feel like it was closing in around her. The sound of running water from upstairs seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat, and though she tried to push away thoughts of Ryan in her shower, the heat in her veins refused to cool.

Greg sat bathed in the blue glow of his laptop screen, his lean frame hunched forward with that familiar tension in his shoulders. The same position she’d found him in countless nights before, lost in spreadsheets and emails while their marriage slowly cooled. Something inside her ached at the sight—not just desire, but a desperate need to reconnect, to feel what they’d once had.

She crossed to him slowly, deliberately, and perched on the armrest. The scent of his coffee mingled with the fresh soap on her skin, and for a moment she remembered how he used to pull her close when she smelled like this, how his hands would wander. Her fingers found his shoulder, trailing down his arm with practiced intimacy.

“Hey,” she breathed, letting her voice drop to that register that used to make him shiver.

Greg’s response was barely more than a grunt, his fingers never pausing on the keyboard. “Hey. Sorry about the generator situation. Stupid thing just needs to be replaced.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, leaning close enough that her lips ghosted his ear. She felt him tense beneath her touch. “Ryan’s still in the shower. I thought maybe we could take advantage of the storm. Remember how we used to love power outages?”

That got his attention, finally. He turned to look at her, but instead of the heat she hoped for, his expression held something closer to annoyance. “Emma, come on. I’m in the middle of something here.” His eyes darted toward the stairs, a muscle working in his jaw. “And he’s right upstairs. It’s ... inappropriate.”

“Inappropriate?” She stifled a laugh. “What’s inappropriate is how long it’s been since you’ve touched me.” She let her hand slide lower, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “Since you’ve really looked at me.”

“Jesus, Emma.” Greg shifted away, his voice tight with frustration. “I can’t deal with this right now. I’ve got deadlines, and you’re...” He gestured vaguely at her, at the way she was pressed against him. “You’re clearly going through something right now.”

The dismissal hit her like a slap. Emma withdrew her hand, ice replacing the fire in her veins. “Going through something?” She stood, wrapping her arms around herself. “Because I want my husband to want me? To notice me? When was the last time you even tried, Greg?”

“That’s not—” He ran a hand through his hair, exasperation evident in every line of his body. “We can talk about this later, okay? When we don’t have an audience?”

“Later,” she echoed, the word hollow. Always later. Always when it was convenient for him. The sound of the shower stopped abruptly upstairs, and Emma felt her pulse jump. “Right. Because there’s always something more important than us.”

Frustration bubbled beneath her skin, and she pulled away, masking her hurt with a tight smile. “Sure. Whatever you need.” How many times had she said that exact phrase, swallowing her disappointment? She remembered when Greg used to look at her the way Ryan did, with that hunger that made her feel seen. Now he barely glanced up from his screen.

As she stood, she caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. Her gaze snapped to the staircase, where Ryan was standing, his damp hair tousled, a towel slung casually over his shoulder. He wore a faint smirk, his eyes lingering on her just a moment too long. Heat crept up Emma’s neck, and she turned quickly, busying herself with rearranging a throw pillow on the couch.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Ryan said, his voice easy and light. “But it’s coming down out there. The storm’s worse than I expected. Any chance I could crash here for the night? I don’t want to risk driving in this mess.”

Emma looked to Greg, whose expression darkened slightly. “Uh, I don’t know if that’s...”

“Of course you can,” Emma cut in, her tone firmer than she intended. “You’ve been so helpful, Ryan. It wouldn’t feel right sending you out in this weather.”

Greg’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his lips pressing into a thin line. Emma felt a small pang of guilt but quickly squashed it. He’d had his chance to connect with her, and he’d brushed it aside.

Ryan’s smile widened, and he nodded. “Thanks. I’ll try not to be too much of a bother.”

The three of them settled into an uneasy triangle in the living room, the storm’s constant howl a backdrop to their forced small talk. Ryan, sprawled in the armchair with casual confidence, produced a bottle of whiskey from his bag. “Might as well make the most of being snowed in, right?” His eyes caught Emma’s as he twisted off the cap. “Ever played ‘Never Have I Ever’?”

Greg shifted on the couch, his posture stiff. “Aren’t we a little old for drinking games?”

“Come on,” Ryan said, pouring three generous measures. “Age is just a number, right Mrs. Langston?”

The way he said her name made her stomach flip. Emma accepted the glass, purposefully avoiding both men’s gazes. “I suppose one drink couldn’t hurt.”

One drink became two, became three. The questions started innocently enough—first jobs, embarrassing moments, college mishaps. As the whiskey worked its way through their blood, Emma became increasingly aware of the heat in the room. The fire crackled merrily in the hearth, Ryan’s firewood burning bright and strong, just like everything else he’d brought to their evening.

Ryan was the first to acknowledge it, shifting in his seat. “Mind if I...?” He didn’t wait for an answer before peeling off his shirt, revealing a fitted tank underneath that showcased every sculpted inch of him. Emma’s eyes caught on a vein that ran like a river along his bicep, following its path up to where it disappeared beneath the fabric stretched across his broad chest. His shoulders moved like liquid steel as he settled back, and she found herself wondering how they would feel beneath her fingers.

“God, it is warm in here,” she said, her voice a little too breathy. Before she could second-guess herself, she gripped the hem of her sweater. “Must be all the whiskey.” The t-shirt underneath rode up as she pulled the sweater over her head, exposing a flash of pink lace that had been meant for Greg’s eyes. She hadn’t intended to put on a show, but Ryan’s sharp intake of breath sent a thrill through her body. When she emerged from the fabric, his eyes were dark with appreciation, lingering on the way the thin material of her shirt did little to hide her body’s response to his attention.

“Never have I ever,” Ryan said, his voice lower now, “wanted something I couldn’t have.”

Emma’s glass trembled slightly as she raised it to her lips. She felt Greg watching her, saw the way his jaw tightened as she drank. Ryan’s satisfied smirk made heat pool in her core.

“Never have I ever,” Greg cut in, his voice carrying an edge, “felt threatened by someone younger.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Ryan’s laugh broke it, low and knowing. “Interesting choice, man.” He didn’t drink, but his eyes never left Emma.