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I never thought I'd be the kind of guy who ends up telling a story like this. My name's Tim, and if you saw me on the street, you'd probably forget me two seconds later. Average height, average build—soft around the middle from too many desk hours and takeout nights. Glasses that always slip down my nose, hair that's starting to thin at the crown even though I'm not even forty yet. I'm the guy who apologizes when someone else bumps into me. Safe. Reliable. Boring, probably.
And then there's Kristen.
We met at a mutual friend's boring office party a couple of years back. She was there in this simple black dress that hugged her in all the ways that made my mouth go dry. Curvy hips, full breasts, long dark hair that fell in waves down her back, and a laugh that turned heads. Way out of my league. I still don't know how I got the courage to talk to her—probably the third beer—but somehow we clicked. She laughed at my dumb jokes, touched my arm when she spoke, and six months later we were engaged. A year after that, married.
She's still way out of my league. Everyone says it, even if they try to be polite about it. Kristen could have had anyone—guys with six-packs, guys with money, guys who don't trip over their own feet. Instead she picked me. I tell myself it's because I'm kind, because I listen, because I make her feel safe. But deep down there's always this quiet voice whispering that maybe she settled. That maybe one day she'll wake up and realize she could do so much better.
We got back from our honeymoon just a couple of weeks ago—some beach resort in Central America where I burned like a lobster and she glowed like a goddess. Now she's officially moved into my apartment in this mid-rise building downtown. Our building. Our life together, finally under one roof. I still get this little rush every time I come home and see her stuff mixed with mine—her perfume in the bathroom, her heels by the door, her lingerie in the drawer next to my plain boxers.
Everything felt perfect. Until that hot Sunday at the building pool.
It was one of those brutal summer afternoons where the air feels thick and the sun bounces off every surface like it's trying to cook you. Kristen wanted to go down to the pool—she'd bought this new bikini during our honeymoon shopping spree, a bright coral two-piece that tied at the sides and showed off her curves in ways that made my stomach flip. She looked incredible. I threw on my baggy swim trunks (the ones that hide my soft gut) and a loose T-shirt I never took off, because who wants to see pasty dad-bod at the pool?
We grabbed towels, sunscreen, and headed down. The pool area was half-full—families, a couple of kids splashing, some older residents reading under umbrellas. And then there was him.
Brad.
He lives on the floor below us. I'd seen him around before—always with headphones on, carrying energy drinks or pizza boxes, sometimes chatting with the delivery guys like they're old friends.
Toned arms from whatever gym routine he does between gaming sessions, smooth skin that hadn't yet learned what real stress feels like, that easy confidence guys like him just seem to be born with. Shirtless most of the time, board shorts slung low, abs that looked carved rather than earned through misery like mine.
He was already there when we arrived, lounging on a chair with his phone, probably watching highlights or memes or whatever guys his age do. When he saw us—saw her—he sat up straighter. His eyes locked on Kristen like she'd just walked out of a dream.
Kristen looked like she belonged on a magazine cover, not in our mediocre apartment building pool. The coral bikini was barely there—two tiny triangles up top that strained against her full, heavy breasts, the ties digging just a little into the soft flesh at her sides. The bottoms were high-cut, showing off the generous curve of her hips and the way her ass cheeks peeked out with every step, round and firm from all those yoga classes she dragged me to (I usually just watched from the couch). Her stomach was flat but soft in that perfect, feminine
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