Day 3: A Shift Too Clear
- Morning: Sarah’s Exhaustion and Departure -
The alarm blared at 5:30 AM, and Sarah barely had the energy to groan, let alone move. Her body felt leaden, drained from a night that had been anything but restful. Every time she’d dozed off, she’d woken up again—too warm, too wet, the ache between her thighs refusing to fade. At some point, she’d just stopped fighting it, lying there in frustration, damp sheets clinging to her skin.
Now, as she forced herself upright, she barely cared about the sticky discomfort between her legs. She was too tired. Too over it. She peeled off her underwear, grimacing at how damp they were before stepping into the shower.
The hot water washed over her, loosening the tension in her muscles, but it didn’t reach the deeper heat inside her—the one that had lingered since last night, coiling low in her stomach, refusing to be rinsed away. She dragged her fingers through her hair, exhaling sharply. I just need to get through today.
As she dressed, her hands stilled over her lips, the faintest trace of something familiar still there. Her stomach twisted. Why do I still want more? The thought unsettled her.
She shook it off, grabbed her bag, and left the house by 6:30 AM, pushing forward like it was just another normal day—pretending that she wasn’t already counting the hours until lunch.
- Morning: Rick’s Awakening and Soreness-
Rick groaned as he turned over, his body aching in a way that felt wrong. Not just stiff—tight, like everything under his skin needed to be stretched, cracked, released. He winced as he sat up, rolling his shoulders, feeling the dull pull of soreness deep in his muscles. His back gave a satisfying pop when he reached his arms over his head, but it didn’t bring the relief he was hoping for.
Swinging his legs out of bed, he pressed his feet to the floor—and immediately regretted it. A sharp, almost bruised sensation shot up from his soles, making him wince. What the hell? He shifted his weight carefully, rolling his ankles, flexing his toes. The ache was duller now, but still there, like his feet weren’t used to supporting him anymore.
Shaking it off, he trudged into the bathroom.
His fingers lingered on the hem of his shirt before he lifted it, his gut tightening with unease. He wasn’t sure why, but something in him knew he wouldn’t like what he saw.
And he was right.
His waist—slimmer. The difference wasn’t extreme, but it was there. The natural, squared-off shape of his torso had softened, tapering slightly inward in a way that wasn’t natural for his body. He frowned, running a hand over his chest.
Fuller.
His pecs weren’t just sore—they felt weighted, the skin more sensitive under his touch. He hesitated, fingers pressing experimentally against the muscle, his frown deepening at the way it reacted, the faintest give beneath the surface.
He dropped his shirt quickly, exhaling through his nose. Damn hospital treatments. That was all this was—some side effect, maybe residual swelling from everything they pumped into him.
But just as he turned away, something else caught his eye.
A scar.
Just over his left pec, a thin, barely-there line—the mark of an old knife wound. A battle souvenir from another lifetime.
His breath left him in a slow exhale. See? Still the same.
Forcing himself to move on, he turned and headed downstairs for breakfast, shoving the unease deep, deep down.
- Sarah at Work: Distraction and Jason-
The morning dragged, and Sarah was barely keeping it together. Exhaustion weighed on her, but it wasn’t just the lack of sleep—it was the relentless hum between her legs, a slow, maddening pulse that refused to ease no matter how much she shifted in her seat. She’d tried everything to ignore it—distracting herself with charts, focusing on patients, even forcing herself into meaningless small talk with coworkers—but none of it worked.
Every step she took, every brush of fabric against her skin sent another wave of that unbearable heat rolling through her. Sitting was worse—her underwear clung to her, the dampness never fully drying. She kept pressing her thighs together, subtly shifting in her chair, but all it did was remind her how badly she needed relief. How am I still this wet? she thought, frustration burning in her stomach.
And then there was her mouth. The taste is still there. It wasn’t strong, but every so often, she caught herself running her tongue along her lips, like her body was searching for more. She hated how natural it felt, how easily she slipped into the memory of last night—the way her mouth had lingered, the way that new, addictive flavor had curled around her tongue.
By mid-morning, she couldn’t take it anymore. Her hands were shaking when she grabbed her phone.
Sarah: I need you now.
Jason: Damn, that bad?
Sarah: Lunch. My car. Be there.
Jason: Fuck yeah, babe. Been waiting on this.
Her fingers hovered over the screen for a second, her stomach twisting. But she didn’t hesitate. She hit send.
She didn’t need to explain. Jason wouldn’t ask questions—he never did. And right now, she needed this. She needed him.
- Rick’s Day: The Scar That Vanished-
By noon, Rick still wasn’t hungry, but he forced himself to eat anyway. Every bite felt like a chore. The eggs were bland, the toast dry, the coffee too bitter. Nothing tasted right. He chewed, swallowed, but it was all just empty. No satisfaction, no craving—just the mechanical act of eating because he knew he should.
After finishing, he leaned back in his chair, rolling his shoulders with a quiet groan. His body still felt stiff, off, the tension clinging to him no matter how much he stretched. His shirt pulled against his chest, the fabric brushing over his skin, and there it was again—that faint weight. Not heavy, but present, pressing just enough to remind him that something wasn’t right.
Frowning, he lifted his shirt, letting the kitchen light spill over his skin. His waist—still slimmer. His chest—still not quite right. But his eyes locked onto his left pec, his stomach dropping.
The scar.
Gone.
His breath hitched as his fingers shot to the spot, pressing, rubbing, searching for something—but the skin was smooth. Too smooth. It was like it had never been there. No raised line, no faint discoloration—just untouched, flawless skin.
His heart kicked up in his chest. His throat felt tight.
“What the hell…” he muttered under his breath.
He turned toward the window, angling himself under the light, trying to convince himself that maybe it was a trick of the shadows. That maybe he just wasn’t seeing it right.
Maybe I just didn’t notice this morning. Maybe it faded somehow. Maybe—
No.
No matter how he twisted or turned, the truth didn’t change.
It was gone.
His hands dropped, trembling slightly as he let his shirt fall back into place. His pulse pounded in his ears. His skin felt wrong. He needed to move. To get out of this house. To breathe air that wasn’t suffocating him under the weight of this unsettling realization.
He grabbed his keys, shoving them into his pocket with more force than necessary.
I just need some fresh air.
- Sarah and Jason: The Affair Continues-
Sarah’s lunch break couldn’t come fast enough. Every second had stretched unbearably, every task dragging as her body pulsed with restless, unbearable need. By the time she made it to the parking lot, her breath was coming in shallow bursts, her thighs clenched tightly with each step.
Jason was already waiting, leaned against the passenger door of her car like he had all the time in the world, arms crossed over his broad chest, smirking like he knew. Like he could see how badly she needed this.
“Damn, babe, you weren’t playin’,” he drawled, pushing off the car as she approached.
“Get in,” she ordered, fumbling with her keys, her voice sharper than she intended. I don’t have time for small talk. I don’t have time for anything except this.
Jason didn’t ask questions. He never did. He just grinned, slid into the passenger seat, and barely had a second to settle before Sarah climbed over him, straddling his lap, slamming the door shut behind her.
Her mouth crashed into his, desperate and demanding, her fingers already yanking at his belt. She needed this now, needed him, needed relief. Jason groaned as her hips pressed against him, grinding down hard, his body responding instantly beneath her.
“Shit,” he exhaled between kisses, his head falling back against the seat, hands gripping her hips. “What’s got into you?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. How could she explain the heat that refused to die down? The way she’d spent the entire morning squirming in her chair, distracted beyond reason, unable to focus on anything but the maddening pulse between her legs? How could she tell him that no matter what she did, no matter how many times she clenched her thighs together, it wasn’t enough?
She didn’t want to explain it. She just wanted to drown in this.
Sarah pulled back, breathing heavy, her fingers already working at his belt, yanking it loose. Jason groaned, lifting his hips slightly to help as she tugged his pants open.
"Fuck, babe," he muttered, grinning down at her as she pushed his waistband down. "You really missed me, huh?"
Sarah didn’t answer right away. Her fingers hesitated at the edge of his waistband, her breath catching as she swallowed down the frustration already building in her chest.
"Not you," she almost said. But she bit her tongue, forcing a smirk instead, tilting her head up just enough to meet his eyes.
"Shut up, Jason."
Her voice came out lower than she expected, rough with something she didn’t have the patience to name. Then, without another word, she pulled his waistband down and leaned in, searching for the taste she needed.
She dipped down, her mouth brushing along his tip as her fingers wrapped around him. Her lips parted, tongue tracing a slow, searching path along his length. She wasn’t teasing—she was looking for something.
Please, let it be the same.
She took him in, working him between her lips, drawing him deeper, tasting.
And then—nothing.
No sweetness. No addictive pull. No strange, intoxicating flavor that made her body ache for more.
Just him. Just normal.
Sarah’s stomach twisted in disappointment, but she kept going, refusing to stop even as frustration burned under her skin.
Jason groaned, his hand fisting gently in her hair, guiding her movements. “God, you’re killing me,” he breathed, his voice thick with pleasure. "You don’t usually—"
She pulled away suddenly, licking her lips, trying to convince herself she’d missed it, that maybe she just hadn’t found it yet. But she knew.
It wasn’t there.
The taste she craved—the one that had lingered on her tongue since last night—wasn’t there.
Her need flared into something bordering on desperation, her fingers trembling as she pulled herself back up.
Jason blinked at her sudden shift, still dazed, still caught in the haze of what she’d just done. "Babe—?"
She didn’t let him finish.
Her hands slid down between them, fumbling at her waistband, fingers trembling with urgency. The awkward position in the driver’s seat made it difficult—her knees pressed against either side of Jason’s hips, the limited space forcing her to shift, to lift herself just enough to wriggle the fabric down.
She cursed under her breath, frustration spiking as she yanked at the tight elastic of her underwear, the damp lace clinging to her skin, refusing to slide down easily. God, they’re soaked.
Jason smirked, feeling her struggle, his hands gripping her thighs. "Need a hand, babe?"
"Shut up," she snapped, shifting her weight onto her knees, managing to hook her fingers beneath the waistband. With a rough tug, she dragged them down just enough—black lace with a thin satin trim, once delicate, now utterly ruined from the wetness she couldn't shake.
She shoved the fabric aside, fingers pressing between her own thighs, desperate. Maybe this will help. Maybe I just need to—
She needed something to fix the ache. Something to make her feel full, to make the pulsing inside her stop.
And if Jason couldn’t give her what she wanted, then she’d just have to take what she could get.
Sarah barely registered the feeling of Jason’s hands gripping her hips as she sank down onto him. The sharp inhale that left her lips wasn’t from surprise—it was from relief, or at least the promise of it. Her body clenched around him, desperate for that rush of pleasure, for something to finally quiet the maddening hum inside her.
Jason cursed under his breath, his head falling back against the seat, his fingers pressing bruises into her skin. He was already there, already lost in the feeling of her, his body reacting exactly as it always did—eager, primal, predictable.
But it wasn’t enough.
Sarah moved, rolling her hips forward, her hands bracing against his shoulders as she chased what she needed. The slick sound of their bodies meeting filled the small, enclosed space, the wetness between her thighs unmistakable as she moved against him.
She could hear Jason’s breath coming in rough, uneven bursts, a deep groan escaping his throat as his fingers tightened on her hips. His body tensed beneath her, reacting the way she expected, but it didn’t matter—not really. His pleasure wasn’t the goal.
She rocked harder, desperate, the heat between her legs flooding, pooling in a way that felt almost unnatural. Every shift, every grind, made her more aware of just how wet she was, how impossible it was to ignore. She could feel the moisture trailing down her thighs, could hear the slick friction, the obscene proof of how badly she needed this.
But even as Jason gripped her tighter, his voice breaking into a low “Fuck, Sarah—” she barely heard him. Her focus was singular, locked onto the aching pulse inside her, chasing something deeper, something real.
"Fuck, Sarah—"
Jason’s voice cracked, his breath hitching sharply as his grip on her hips tightened. His fingers dug into her flesh, pulling her down harder, forcing her to grind against him as his body tensed beneath her. She could feel it—his muscles locking, his thighs flexing, his entire frame going rigid as the pleasure overtook him.
His hands twitched, gripping her as if trying to hold onto the moment, his breath breaking into a deep, shuddering groan. His hips jerked upward, a stuttering, uncontrolled movement as he spilled into her, his body succumbing to the pleasure that had built so quickly between them.
Sarah barely noticed.
She felt the pulse of his release, the way his body trembled beneath her, but it didn’t reach her. It didn’t drag her under, didn’t flood her with the same crashing wave of satisfaction that she needed.
He was done.
But she wasn’t.
Her hips kept rolling, her body still chasing something just beyond her grasp, something Jason’s climax hadn’t given her. He groaned beneath her, sensitive now, his hands flexing against her skin, his breath coming in sharp pants as she kept moving, kept using him—like his pleasure was just an afterthought to the unbearable hum inside her.
She wasn’t done.
She kept moving.
Jason groaned, a sharp breath leaving his lips as his hands flexed against her skin, half-heartedly trying to slow her down. “Shit, babe, wait—”
She ignored him. Used him.
Her hips rocked forward again, faster now, chasing a sensation that felt just out of reach. She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the friction, the heat between them, willing it to build, to crest into something more.
But it wasn’t coming fast enough.
Jason shifted beneath her, clearly overstimulated, his hands gripping her hips like he wanted to push her off but didn’t quite have the nerve. His head fell back against the seat, his breath still uneven, but Sarah barely registered it.
It was taking too long. Way too long.
Every time she felt close, the feeling dulled just before it could take her over, slipping through her fingers like smoke. She clenched her teeth, frustration curling tight in her stomach, her nails digging into Jason’s shoulders as she forced herself to keep going.
When it finally came, her orgasm was nothing like what she’d been craving.
It was mild, drawn out—distant, almost. A slow crest of relief instead of the shattering, consuming high she’d expected. It dulled the ache, took the edge off the unbearable need, but it wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t like last night.
It wasn’t like him.
Her body stilled, the tension in her limbs unwinding just enough to leave her feeling hollow. The hum was quieter now, but it was still there, just beneath the surface, lingering like an itch that hadn’t quite been scratched.
She slumped forward, her forehead pressing against Jason’s shoulder, her breath unsteady.
Here’s the expanded version with a small exchange between them, keeping it immersive and natural:
"Jesus," Jason murmured, exhaling heavily, his grip on her waist loosening as he slumped back against the seat. His body was spent, still trembling faintly beneath her, but she barely felt it. His fingers ran absentmindedly over her hips before finally settling against her thighs.
"What’s gotten into you today?" he asked, voice rough with lingering breathlessness. His tone wasn’t teasing anymore—it was something else. Curiosity? Concern?
Sarah’s nails absently scraped against his chest, her body still tense, still humming with unspent energy.
"I don’t know," she admitted finally, her voice quieter than she expected. It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t know.
Jason’s fingers drummed lightly against her thigh, his other hand reaching up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He smirked, but there was a flicker of something else behind his eyes.
"Well, whatever it is, I like it."
Sarah huffed out something that was almost a laugh, almost a scoff. Jason was still catching his breath beneath her, his chest rising and falling in lazy, uneven patterns, his body sinking into post-climax ease. But she was still moving, still rolling her hips in slow, absent circles, grinding against him even as he softened inside her.
She could feel it, the way he shrank, the way her body clenched down instinctively, still trying to wring something more from him, but it wasn’t working. Her slick heat enveloped him, but he was already done, already fading, his hands resting lazily against her thighs like he was too spent to care.
And she still wasn’t.
She let out a slow sigh, frustration simmering beneath her skin as she finally lifted herself off of him. The emptiness left behind only made the ache worse. She didn’t look at him as she reached for her underwear, ignoring the faint stickiness between her thighs as she yanked the damp fabric back into place.
Jason smirked, stretching his arms behind his head like he hadn’t just left her hanging.
"Damn, babe. You really needed that, huh?"
Sarah didn’t answer. She didn’t need that. She needed something else. And she still hadn’t found it.
- The Quiet Tension-
- Sarah’s POV-
The house was quiet when Sarah walked in. Too quiet. The kind of silence that felt heavier than it should, pressing against her ears like something waiting to be acknowledged.
Rick was still in the same spot she’d left him this morning, slouched on the couch, staring at the blank TV. He didn’t even look up when she dropped her purse onto the table.
Her pulse quickened for reasons she didn’t want to acknowledge. Something’s off.
She could still feel Jason on her skin—his touch, his weight, the way he had taken the edge off but never fully satisfied her. Her body still hummed faintly, a lingering reminder of whatever was wrong with her. But looking at Rick now, she knew whatever she was dealing with? He had something worse.
His shoulders were tense, his fingers tapping idly against his thigh, his gaze distant. He looked smaller, like something had drained the energy out of him, hollowing him out from the inside.
“Long day?” she asked, keeping her voice even.
Rick exhaled, a slow, measured breath, then rubbed a hand down his face like the act of answering her was exhausting.
“Yeah,” he muttered. It sounded automatic. Empty. Like he wasn’t even sure what his day had been.
Sarah hesitated. She should sit next to him, talk to him, ask him what was wrong. That’s what a good wife would do. But instead, she grabbed a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water she didn’t actually want.
She stole another glance at him as she sipped.
His chest rose and fell too evenly, too controlled. The way he sat, the way his hands flexed and unflexed against his knees—he looked like a man trying to convince himself he wasn’t sick.
A chill ran through her.
“Want anything?” she asked.
Rick barely shook his head.
Sarah swallowed hard and turned away.
- Rick’s POV-
Something was wrong.
It wasn’t just the missing scar. It wasn’t just his hands, or his chest, or his waist. It was all of it.
Rick felt contaminated. Like something was inside him, beneath his skin, threading through his muscles and veins, changing him.
At first, he’d tried to push it away. He told himself it was exhaustion, recovery, stress. But none of that explained the way his body felt—how each movement seemed slower, more alien, like his limbs weren’t syncing up with the mind that controlled them.
The heat was still there too. It wasn’t a fever, but it felt wrong, pooling in places it shouldn’t, leaving him restless but drained at the same time. His bones ached. His muscles stretched, like they weren’t fitting right anymore.
It reminded him of the men he’d seen in the field—the ones exposed to chemicals, radiation, slow-killing poisons that took days to settle into the bloodstream before turning them into walking corpses.
That’s what he felt like. Like something was eating at him from the inside, rewiring him at a cellular level.
And no one else could see it.
Not Sarah. Not even himself—not yet.
His fingers curled into the fabric of his pants. What if it’s cancer? What if something from that explosion got into me? What if the treatment didn’t heal me—what if it did something worse?
Sarah was in the kitchen now, her back to him. He should get up, go to her, tell her what was happening. But what would he say? Hey, babe, I think I’m mutating into something?
She’d think he was losing his mind.
Hell, maybe he was.
The thought hit him hard, his stomach twisting as he leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his face. He had to get a grip.
Sarah barely spoke to him as they got ready for bed.
Not that she seemed angry—more like… distracted.
She stood at the sink, brushing her teeth in silence, staring into the mirror like she was just as lost in her own head as he was. Rick was behind her, running a damp washcloth over his face, his reflection catching his eye.
He hesitated.
His skin looked… better than it should.
Not healthier. Not stronger. Just—cleaner. Too smooth, too even. Even the subtle scars from years of military work, the ones he’d never paid much attention to, looked faded. The burn marks he should’ve had from that explosion? Gone.
His stomach twisted again.
Sarah spit into the sink, rinsing her mouth, then finally met his gaze in the mirror. “You okay?”
Her voice wasn’t soft. It wasn’t warm. It was careful. Like she didn’t really want to hear the answer.
Rick forced a shrug. “Just tired.”
She nodded, flicking off the light.
They climbed into bed, the space between them stretching wider than it should. Sarah turned on her side, her back to him, shifting like she couldn’t quite get comfortable. Rick stared at the ceiling, his mind still racing, his body itching in ways he couldn’t explain.
The warmth in his chest wasn’t fading. His muscles weren’t relaxing. He was exhausted, but he knew—even as he lay still, as he forced his eyes shut—that sleep wouldn’t come easy.
And when it did, he wasn’t sure if he’d wake up feeling like himself again.