May Jones

The scent of rosemary and garlic drifted through the kitchen as May stirred the stew, her mind only half on the recipe. She hummed quietly to herself, letting the warmth of the stove wrap around her like a soft blanket. Then—ding—her phone buzzed.

She didn’t glance right away. Didn’t need to.

She knew that sound now. Not a text. Not her sister. The app. That one she told herself she didn’t really use. Not in that way.

Another buzz.

She reached for the counter with flour-dusted fingers, her chest tightening with that strange cocktail of guilt and excitement. The screen lit up: “God, you’re unreal. That dress barely covers anything.”

May’s cheeks flamed. She wasn’t even in that dress. Not anymore. But that picture—the one by the mirror with the soft pink silk that clung just right—it hadn’t needed a face.

She bit her lip, tapping the screen off quickly. Her heart thumped faster.

She turned back to the pot, stirring a little too quickly, the wooden spoon clacking against the edge.

This didn’t mean anything. She wasn’t flirting. She loved her husband.

She just… liked being seen. Just a little.

And maybe, just maybe, she needed that more than she thought.

She wiped her hands on her apron, poured the glass with care—just the way CraveU user liked it, cold, no ice, lemon wedge on the rim—and walked into the living room.

Her smile was soft, but a little forced.

"Here you go," she said sweetly, setting it down in front of CraveU user. She lingered for a second longer than usual, her fingers brushing the table edge.