The days after the open marriage suggestion settled into a strange, fragile rhythm.
I had moved back next door to my parents' old house. The place felt both familiar and empty. Mum and Dad were still in their new city, so it was just me — alone with my thoughts, the old bedroom, and the garden fence that separated me from Elena's house. We were only thirty feet apart physically, but emotionally it felt like an ocean.
Elena and I barely spoke. We still saw each other during patrols or when passing in the yard, but the easy warmth was gone. The guilt from what I had done with those models, and the pain she felt when she walked in on it, hung between us like a wall. We hadn't had sex since the surrender. Not once. The idea of touching each other felt too raw, too complicated.
I didn't fully believe her about Cassanova.
She had told me they didn't sleep together — that they only banged things around the room and made noises to make me jealous, to make me feel the same pain she had felt. Part of me wanted to believe her. The other part — the jealous, insecure part — kept replaying the sounds I had heard that night. Her moans. The rhythmic banging. Her crying out in pleasure. It was too real. Too convincing.
I needed to know the truth.
I found Cassanova at a resistance safe house on the edge of the city. He was alone, checking gear after a mission. He looked up when I walked in — tall, muscular, same age as Elena, with that easy confidence that made my stomach twist.
"Alex," he said, nodding politely. "Didn't expect to see you here."
I didn't waste time. "Did you fuck my wife?"
Cassanova set down the weapon he was cleaning. He looked me straight in the eye. There was no hesitation.
"No," he said calmly. "We didn't have sex. We banged things around the room — slammed the headboard, knocked stuff over, made it sound convincing. Elena wanted you to hear it. She wanted you to feel the same pain she felt when she saw you with those models. It was cruel, but she was hurting."
I stared at him, searching for any sign of a lie. He didn't flinch.
"She could never sleep with another man," he continued. "Not while she still loves you. That much is clear. But I'll be honest with you, Alex. I don't like you. I don't think you deserve her. She's the same age as me. We understand each other in ways you never will. You're younger. You're still figuring yourself out. She needs someone who can stand beside her as an equal, not someone she has to carry."
His words hit like a punch. I wanted to swing at him, but I held back. "That's not your call to make."
"Maybe not," he said. "But it's the truth. She deserves better than what you gave her that night."
I left without another word. The jealousy burned hotter than ever, but so did the guilt. He was right about one thing — I had failed her.
That evening, Elena and I finally sat down together in my parents' old living room. The house was quiet except for the distant hum of the city. She looked tired but beautiful, wearing a simple tank top and shorts that showed off her curves.
"I talked to Cassanova," I said quietly.
Elena's eyes widened slightly. "You did?"
"He told me the truth. You didn't sleep with him. You faked it to make me jealous. To make me feel what you felt."
She looked down at her hands. "I was so angry, Alex. When I saw you with those models… it broke something in me. I wanted you to hurt the same way. It was wrong. I'm sorry."
I reached across the couch and took her hand. "I'm sorry too. For being weak. For letting Riftmaster break me. For sleeping with them. I hate myself for it. He was controlling me, but I still let it happen. I failed you. I failed us."
Elena squeezed my hand. Her voice was soft. "I know he manipulated you. I saw the cuffs, the way he set it up. But it still hurt. I needed time. I needed to feel in control again."
We talked for a long time — honest, painful, necessary words. No shouting. Just two people who loved each other trying to find their way back.
"I still love you, Elena," I said. "More than anything. I want to fix this. I want us back."
She smiled — small, but real. "I love you too. Let's try. Slowly."
We started small.
The next night, we went on a date. No suits. No missions. Just us. We chose a quiet Italian restaurant downtown — candlelit tables, soft music, a corner booth where we could talk without being recognized. Elena wore a simple black dress that hugged her curves. I couldn't stop staring at her.
"This feels nice," she said, swirling her wine. "Normal. Like we used to be before everything went to hell."
I reached across the table and took her hand. "I missed this. I missed you. Every mission without you felt empty."
She smiled. "I missed you too. Cassanova is good at what he does, but he's not you. No one could ever be you."
We talked for hours — about the missions, the guilt, the future. No pressure. Just two people rebuilding something fragile but real.
Over the next couple of weeks, we slowly started fixing our marriage.
We did minor missions separately — nothing major. The world was finally enjoying a fragile peace. I stopped a car theft ring in the suburbs. Elena handled a small hostage situation at a bank. We won every time, but we always came home and checked in with each other. Small texts. Shared meals. Quiet conversations on the porch between our two houses.
One night, after a long day, Elena was in her garden again.
I was in my room, watching from the window like I used to in the early days. She knew I was there. She was wearing nothing but a thin silk robe. The robe fell open as she leaned back against the garden bench. One hand slid slowly down her body.
She was playing with herself.
Her fingers moved between her thighs with deliberate, sensual strokes. Her head tilted back, long black hair cascading over her shoulders. Soft, breathy moans escaped her lips — quiet enough not to wake the neighborhood, but loud enough for me to hear clearly across the silent street.
She arched her back, robe slipping further open to reveal the full curves of her breasts and the smooth line of her stomach. Her hips rocked gently against her own hand as the pleasure built.
"Alex…" she moaned softly, knowing I could hear. "I know you're watching…"
Her fingers moved faster. She cupped one breast with her free hand, pinching her nipple as she pleasured herself. Her body trembled as she brought herself closer to the edge.
Then she looked straight at my window. She raised her hand — the one covered in her juices — and beckoned me over with a single finger.
I didn't hesitate.
I crossed the garden fence in seconds. When I reached her, she stood up, robe falling completely open. She lifted her wet fingers to my lips.
"Suck," she whispered.
I took her fingers into my mouth, tasting her — sweet, familiar, intoxicating. I sucked them clean, eyes locked on hers.
She smiled — that beautiful, teasing smile I had missed so much.
Then she pulled me into a passionate kiss.
Our lips crashed together — hungry, desperate, full of everything we had been holding back. Her hands slid under my shirt, nails grazing my skin. I lifted her, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carried her deeper into the garden.
We made love right there on the grass — slow at first, then faster, more urgent. Her pussy was wet and welcoming as I slid inside her. "Yes… Alex… I've missed you… missed this…" she moaned, hips rolling to meet every thrust.
It almost felt brand new again.
The love was back.
We came together under the stars — auras flaring violet and purple, lighting up the garden like the early days. When it was over, we lay there naked, holding each other, breathing in sync.
"I love you," I whispered.
"I love you too," she replied, kissing my chest. "We're going to be okay."
For the first time in weeks, I believed her.