BOOK FOUR: She Won't Fuck Me? Okay,He Will

~Theo’s POV~

The house is quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old wood settling. It's past midnight, and the living room is lit only by the amber glow of the single lamp on the side table. The Christmas lights outside the window blink lazily through the half-open blinds, casting red and green flecks across the hardwood floor. Marcus and I are the only ones still awake. Everyone else—his wife, my wife, the kids — went to bed hours ago after eating too much turkey and pie.

We're on the couch, a half-empty bottle of Macallan between us on the coffee table. Two heavy crystal glasses sit in front of us, mine nearly drained, his still half full. He's always been the measured one. Me? I pour more heavily when I'm restless.

I lean back into the leather, the cool material sticking slightly to the back of my neck where a sheen of sweat has gathered despite the winter chill outside. The whiskey burns slow and familiar in my chest, loosening the knot that's been there for months. Years, if I'm honest.

Marcus is sprawled at the other end of the couch, one arm draped along the back, long legs stretched out. His socked feet are close to my thigh, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him when he shifts. He's wearing those gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, the kind that leave little to the imagination when he stands up to refill our glasses. Not that I've been looking much.

He's watching me with that steady gaze he has. We've been friends since college…twenty years of shared apartments, weddings, and kids. He knows me better than anyone. Better than Sarah does these days, that's for damn sure.

I take another sip, letting the smoky peat coat my tongue before I swallow. The silence stretches, comfortable but heavy.

"You've been quiet all night," he says finally. His voice is low, a little rough from the scotch. It always gets deeper when he's tired or drinking.

I huff a laugh that doesn't feel funny. "Just thinking."

"About?"

I roll the glass between my palms, watching the liquid swirl. The ice has mostly melted, leaving faint condensation rings on the wood table. "Same shit. Work, kids, and Sarah."

He doesn't say anything, he just waits. That's Marcus. He never pushes, but he always hears everything.

I exhale through my nose. "It's been... I don't know. A long time."

Since the last time Sarah and I had sex. I don't say it out loud, but I don't have to. He knows. He's the only one I've ever admitted it to, in vague terms over golf or beers. Eight months, maybe nine. I stopped counting after the last awkward attempt that ended with her rolling over and pretending to fall asleep. She's always too busy for me.

Marcus shifts, and his knee brushes mine. Just a graze, denim against denim, but it lingers a second longer than it should. Neither of us moves away.

"She's stressed," I say, like I'm defending her. "The new job, the kids' schedules…I get it."

But I don't. Not really. Not when I still want her and she barely looks at me anymore unless it's to ask if I took out the trash or when it's time to collect some cash.

Marcus hums, a low sound in his throat. He leans forward to top up my glass, even though I didn't ask. His arm brushes my shoulder as he reaches across, and I catch the scent of him—clean soap, a hint of cedar from whatever cologne he wears, and now the sharp bite of whiskey on his breath.

"Stress doesn't last forever," he says, settling back. But his knee stays where it is, pressed lightly against mine now and it's not accidental anymore.

I take the fresh pour and drink half of it in one go. The burn feels good.

"It's not just stress," I admit. My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from someone else. "It's... everything. We don't talk. We don't touch. I walk into the bedroom and she tenses up like I'm about to ask for something she doesn't want to give."

The words spill out easier than I expected. Maybe it's the alcohol, maybe it's the late hour, or maybe…it's him.

Marcus's eyes are on me, intense in the low light. I can see the reflection of the lamp in them, golden flecks in the brown. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, he didn't shave today, and it makes him look rougher, older than his forty-two years.

"You deserve more than that, Theo."

The way he says it makes my chest tight.

I laugh again, bitter this time. "Yeah, well. Marriage, right? For better or worse."

His knee presses a fraction harder against mine. The contact is warm and solid.

"That's bullshit," he says quietly. "You think I don't see how you look when you're alone? Whenever you are around me, you laugh more."

I swallow. He's not wrong. Being around Marcus always feels... easier. Like I don't have to perform or think of words to mumble.

The room feels smaller suddenly. The air between us is thick with whiskey fumes and something else I can't name.

I shift, trying to create space, but my leg stays pressed to his. I can feel the muscle of his thigh, firm under the fabric.

"It's not like I don't try," I say. My voice is rougher now. "I give her flowers, and we go for dinner. I even suggested counseling. She said we're fine. That it's just a phase. We do everything a good couple does except sex."

Marcus's hand moves on the back of the couch, fingers curling slightly. Close to my shoulder but not touching yet.

"Phases end," he says. "But sometimes people let them become permanent."

I look at him then. His face is angular in the lamplight, with a strong jaw and a straight nose. There's a small scar near his left eyebrow from that stupid skateboard accident in his sophomore year. I was there, I held his head while he bled.

His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second. So quick I might have imagined it. My pulse kicks up. I can hear it in my ears, feel it in my throat. He clears his throat and looks away, reaching for his glass. But his knee doesn't move.

The silence stretches again. I can smell him stronger now; his breathing is steady, but I notice his chest rising a little faster.

My own skin feels too tight. The couch leather creaks as I shift again, and this time my thigh presses fully against his.

Neither of us pulls away.

"Don't worry, you’d figure things out with her," he says finally. His voice is barely above a whisper. "And have your sex marriage back."

His fingers on the couch back twitch, inching closer to my shoulder. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat of them.

I want to say something. But my mouth is dry, and all I can focus on is the point where our legs connect and the way his body heat radiates through the fabric.

The clock on the mantle ticks loudly in the silence.

I take another drink, but it doesn't help. The burn settles low in my stomach, mixing with something else.

Marcus's eyes are dark now, pupils wide in the dim light. He's watching me like he's waiting for something, like he's holding himself back.

I should move, stand up, say goodnight, and go to sleep on the guest room floor if I have to. But I don't.

His knee shifts, just slightly, pressing more firmly against mine. I press back. The contact sends a jolt through me, sharp and unexpected. My breath catches. His lips part, just barely. I watch his throat work as he swallows.

My hand tightens around the glass. The ice clinks softly.

He doesn't move closer, nor does he pull away. He just watches me with that steady and intense gaze, and I sit there with a pounding heart, knowing I should stop this…whatever this is, before it goes any further.

But I don't.