The third drink tasted sweeter than the first.
Meguri normally paced herself. She liked control — over her voice, her posture, the careful distance she kept between herself and the world. Tonight she let the warmth bloom unchecked, spreading through her chest like something long denied.
Nagano was already flushed, the rigid tension in his shoulders finally melting into the couch.
"I've never had a boss invite me into his home like this," he said with a shy, nervous laugh. "It feels… strange."
"It is strange," Meguri agreed softly.
Strange that her husband had suggested it so casually. Strange that she hadn't refused. Strange that the silence between her and this awkward man now felt lighter than the silences she sometimes shared with the man she'd married.
They had drifted from the dining table to the living room without deciding to. Closer now. Not planned. Just… natural.
The lights here were softer, dimmer, casting gentle shadows across the walls.
Nagano rubbed the back of his neck. "I still don't understand what he wanted me to learn from this."
Meguri leaned back, letting the cushions cradle her. "Responsibility, maybe."
He looked at her, really looked. "Is that what marriage is?"
She considered it for a long moment.
Responsibility. Stability. Expectation. Routine.
"Yes," she said quietly. "That's part of it."
"And the other part?"
The question hung in the warm air between them.
Meguri stared into her glass. "The other part," she whispered, "is wanting to be chosen. Every single day."
Nagano didn't rush to fill the silence. He just listened — completely, openly — and somehow that made the entire room feel smaller, more intimate.
The alcohol had loosened the knots she usually kept so tightly wound.
"He says he loves me," she murmured, voice barely above the low hum of the clock. "But sometimes it feels like he loves the idea of me."
Nagano swallowed. "I don't think he sees how lonely you are."
The words were simple. They landed like a key turning in a lock she had forgotten existed.
Lonely.
She had never let herself say it out loud before. Not even in the quiet hours of the night.
A soft, startled laugh escaped her lips. "You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't know me."
Nagano hesitated, then met her eyes. "I know enough."
Silence again — trembling, alive.
She became aware of how close they were sitting now. Not touching. But close enough that she could feel the faint heat of his body, the unsteady rhythm of his breathing.
She could still stop this. She knew that. The alcohol hadn't stolen her reason — it had only quieted the voice that always told her to retreat.
"Does he make you happy?" Nagano asked, almost afraid of the answer.
The question felt dangerous. Sacred.
Meguri opened her mouth for the safe, automatic reply — Of course. He's reliable. He provides.
Instead the truth slipped free, quiet and devastating.
"I don't know."
The clock ticked on.
Three hours.
That was all her husband had given them.
Three hours to "play house."
Her heart was beating faster now, a steady, insistent drum.
Nagano's hand rested on the cushion between them — close, so close.
She looked at it. Then at him.
He wasn't bold. He wasn't smooth. He looked uncertain, almost reverent, waiting for her to decide.
And for the first time in years, Meguri felt wanted — not as the perfect wife on display, but as a woman whose loneliness had finally been seen.
Her fingers brushed his.
This time neither of them pulled away.
The air between them shifted — subtle, electric, irreversible.
Nagano's breath hitched. "Maybe we shouldn't—" he started, voice rough.
Maybe.
The word trembled there, fragile as glass.
Maybe they shouldn't. Maybe they could still step back. Maybe three hours could still be harmless.
Meguri glanced once toward the hallway that led to the bedroom, then back to Nagano.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She stood slowly, gracefully, as if the decision had already been made long ago.
"Let's… move somewhere more comfortable."
Her voice didn't waver. That frightened her more than anything.
Nagano rose after only a heartbeat's hesitation, following her like a man walking toward something he both feared and desperately needed.
Behind them the living room lights stayed on. The clock kept ticking. And somewhere deeper in the house, a door closed with a soft, final click.
He wasn't supposed to come back early. He knew that.
The client meeting had wrapped up faster than expected. The second half was suddenly canceled, and the three carefully allocated hours collapsed into barely two.
He checked the dashboard clock. Still early.
He considered waiting. Driving around the block. Killing time at some café. But that felt ridiculous.
This was his house. His wife. His junior.
There was nothing to hesitate about.
So he drove home.
The hallway outside the apartment was quiet. Too quiet, he thought — though it always was at this hour.
He unlocked the door. The click sounded louder than usual.
He stepped inside.
The living room lights were still on. The faint, warm scent of whiskey lingered in the air — not strong, just… present.
"Nagano?" he called casually.
No response.
He slipped off his shoes and walked further in.
The living room was slightly disordered. Two glasses on the table. One tipped slightly, leaving a faint ring on the wood beneath it. A cushion pushed out of place.
Small things. Insignificant.
But he noticed them.
Footsteps.
Nagano appeared from the hallway. Hair slightly messy. Face pale. He froze the moment he saw him.
"Sir—! I thought you'd be back later."
"I finished early."
Silence stretched between them.
Nagano swallowed hard, throat working visibly. He avoided eye contact completely. That was new.
"You heading out?" he asked, keeping his voice light.
"Y-yes. I was just leaving."
The words sounded rehearsed.
Meguri stepped into view behind him. Her cream sweater was slightly wrinkled. Her expression perfectly composed. Too composed.
"You're back early," she said gently.
He studied her face.
Her eyes were steady. But something lived beneath them now — something soft, something glowing, something he couldn't name.
Nagano snatched his jacket in a hurry, bowing too quickly. "Thank you for the hospitality," he muttered.
He brushed past. Their shoulders nearly touched. Nagano flinched.
The flinch didn't escape him.
The door opened. Closed.
Silence returned.
Only the two of them remained.
His wife stood a few steps away. The distance between them suddenly felt wider than the entire room.
"How was the experiment?" he asked lightly.
Meguri tilted her head slightly. "It was… educational."
Educational.
He smiled faintly. "Good. I hope he learned something."
She didn't answer.
Instead she walked past him toward the kitchen, movements slower, more measured than usual.
He watched as she picked up the glasses. Her fingers lingered on the one that wasn't his.
A small detail. But it stayed in his mind like a splinter.
"You drank quite a bit," he observed.
"Did I?" Her tone wasn't defensive. Just distant. "I didn't think you'd mind."
Of course he wouldn't. She was his wife. Trusted. Responsible.
But standing there in his own living room, something pressed against his chest — a faint, unfamiliar discomfort. Not anger. Not suspicion.
Just… displacement. Like he had walked into a space that no longer felt entirely his.
Meguri turned to face him. "Did your meeting go well?"
"Yes."
"That's good."
Another silence.
Usually she would have stepped closer. Touched his sleeve. Asked more. Tonight she stayed exactly where she was.
He glanced at the clock. One hour and fifty-three minutes. Seven minutes early.
He told himself it meant nothing. Nothing significant could change in under two hours.
Right?
He stepped forward, trying to close the strange new gap between them. "Did you have fun?"
Meguri looked at him for a long moment. Then she smiled — soft, unreadable.
"I think we both learned something."
The answer unsettled him more than it should have.
"About what?"
She paused.
"About being seen."
The words slipped out quietly.
Before he could respond, she turned away again. "I'm going to shower."
He stood alone in the living room.
The faint smell of alcohol still lingered. The cushion remained slightly out of place. The clock ticked louder than before.
For the first time since he had left the house earlier that evening, he wondered if three hours had been far longer than he thought.