The door shut behind us with a click that sounded louder than it should've. We walked back in silence, the chill in the afternoon air doing little to cool the strange warmth still lingering in my chest — not the kind of warmth that comes from comfort, but from unease.
I wanted to say something. Just a line — Did that feel… off to you? — but every time I opened my mouth, her calm face told me not to. She was walking beside me like nothing had happened. As if that stinking, too-tight hug from the old man hadn't happened. As if his hand hadn't hovered near her ass longer than any polite gesture should allow.
Back inside our home, she slipped off her slippers and walked into the kitchen.
"Next time," she said casually, pulling her hair back into a bun, "we take candles. That place needs them more than fruits." She giggled, almost too perfectly.
I chuckled back, forcing it.
The air in our home was warm and inviting, just the way we'd wanted it. Still, I couldn't help but feel like we had dragged in something... unpleasant from outside. I tried to shake it off. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe she was right — first impressions aren't everything. Maybe the hug was just… cultural? Maybe?
That evening, we went out to catch a film — a soft romantic drama, one of those "moving to a new life" types. Fitting. She laughed at all the right moments, leaned into me during the slow ones. Her fingers occasionally found mine in the dark. For a while, it felt like nothing had changed. For a while, I let go.
The walk back was quiet, hand in hand. The moonlight hung low over the neighborhood, and most houses were already dark — curtains drawn, lights dimmed.
But one house, the third one from the corner was very much awake.
As we passed it, the night was broken by something strange. A rhythmic, primal sound. Then a sharp gasp. Then moans — unmistakably a woman's — spilling through the thin walls, raw and unfiltered. The kind that aren't just loud… but intentional. Like they wanted someone to hear.
My wife froze mid-step, her fingers stiffening around mine. Her eyes darted forward — not toward the house, but ahead, like she was pretending not to notice. Her cheeks flushed pink, and without saying a word, she quickened her pace, almost pulling me along.
I looked back at the window. A dim light glowed behind the curtain, swaying gently as if something was rocking inside.
"Shameless people," I muttered.
She didn't respond.
Back home, she moved about normally. Took off her cardigan. Poured water into a glass. Made some light conversation. She was calm — a little quieter than usual — but nothing out of the ordinary.
We brushed, changed, and slipped into bed. I thought the day was done.
But then, just as I turned off the light — it came again.
The same house. The same moans. Louder this time. Fiercer. The woman was screaming now. Not in pain — no. In abandon. As if she had nothing to hide. As if the world outside those walls didn't exist.
I turned to my wife. Her head was angled slightly toward the sound. Her eyes were half-open. Not closed in sleep. Not in discomfort. But in attention.
She didn't say anything.Her breath was even, her body still.And for a moment, something inside me stirred — something between jealousy and confusion. I didn't want to ask what she was thinking. I didn't want to know.
So instead, I reached out — my hand sliding over her waist. Her body shifted toward me almost immediately.
There was no resistance. No hesitation. She kissed me back — deeply, hungrily — as if something had been lit inside her.We made love.
She responded eagerly. Moved like she meant every motion. Moaned softly in ways that were both familiar and slightly different. I told myself it was passion. I told myself it was just the excitement of a new place, a new chapter.
When it was over, we lay there in the dark.She turned over, facing away from the window.I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the last echoes from that house still bouncing off the walls.
I told myself:
Our sex life is great. She's happy. We're happy.
I told myself that again and again.
But a whisper in my mind — slow, co
ld, persistent — kept asking me:
What if I'm wrong?