This little ficlet is the offspring produced by my brain and Bruce Springsteen's 'I'm On Fire'. Music does weird things to my head…

She hums softly to herself, licking the sweet peach juice off her thumb. Hands slide around her waist, and she can't suppress the smile that spreads lazily over her face. Her head falls back onto his shoulder as he sways with her, taking the tip of her forefinger into his mouth and sucking on it languidly. This feels like heaven, and she closes her eyes so it won't go away. The peach juice gone, he kisses at her neck, running his hands over her sides, and she sighs. If she doesn't think too much, she can almost believe that this is her kitchen, her house, her husband.

"You know how sexy you look when you're baking?" he whispers to her, pressing a kiss to the hollow behind her ear. She giggles.

"That's why I do it." He lets out a groan against her skin, smiling. "But you have company coming over, and if you distract me, the torte won't be ready in time."

"I think I'll survive," he murmurs, pulling her towards the kitchen table.

She swirls back into the kitchen, skirts swishing, heels clicking. She checks the oven, and once she is sure it's preheated, places the torte inside. "I can't believe you couldn't wait until it was baking," she scolds him, looking over her shoulder to where he is still zipping up his pants. He just grins at her, complete in his indifference for the pastry.

"You didn't have to make that for tonight," he tells her, coming into the kitchen. He backs her up to the island, playing with the string of pearls draped around her neck. Sunlight streams through the window, throwing the spotless kitchen into sharp relief.

"Yes I did. Your boss is coming over. I want you to impress him," she picks at the hem of his shirt.

"And I appreciate it," he kisses her neck. "But I'm just worried it's a little suspicious. I mean, do you think they'll really believe I baked a peach torte?"

"Just say you bought it at a bakery," she sighs, tilting her head back as his lips ghost over her skin.

She is satisfied the torte will be done on time. The sky has darkened, and the clock on the microwave shines a cool green, 6:23 glowing at her steadily. He is upstairs, taking a shower, readying himself for the company he insists he isn't nervous about. She smiles, shaking her head. This is a big opportunity for him, one where he can improve his standings in the company.

The timer rings, and she grabs an oven mitt from the counter. Heat rolls out in waves as she opens the oven door, pulling the golden torte out and placing it on a cooling rack. She looks up at the clock, 6:27. Perfect. She needs to get out of here anyway. His company is coming over at 8, and she can't be here when they do.

Plus, his wife will be home in a half hour.

He comes downstairs to a note scribbled on a piece of paper and set near the cooling pastry.

Have fun tonight. Good luck. I love you.

He smiles at the paper, pushing into his pants pocket and glancing up at the clock. She'll be home any minute, and he shakes his head at how reckless Taylor is, leaving that note.

"Ryan," her voice calls from the foyer, and he plasters a smile on his face. She comes into the kitchen, looking weary and exhausted.

"Hey," he leans forwards to kiss her, and she gives him a quick peck. "How was work?"

She sighs, launching into a tirade about how no one listens to her ideas. He nods along, pushing his hand into his pocket and fingering the scrap of paper. She takes no notice of his lack of attention, striding around the kitchen, gathering food.

"Marissa," he interrupts, "why are you getting food?" She looks at him like he's an idiot.

"Because I'm hungry."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "You forgot, didn't you? The dinner with my boss?" he reminds her, and her eyes widen in remembrance.

"Crap, that's today?" she sighs, throwing the food containers back into the refrigerator. She notices the torte on the counter. "You baked?"

"No," he answers. "I bought it at the bakery on Main," his heart leaps at the lie, hot excitement burning through him. She nods, not really paying attention.

"This is fantastic," Branson exclaims, shoveling more of the sugary desert into his mouth. "Main Street, you said?" Ryan nods. Marissa knocks back another mouthful of wine.

"So the Johnson project," Ryan goads, trying to get the man back on track. He swears, his boss is so unfocused he's not sure how anything gets done. But the man is an architectural genius.

"Right, the Johnson project," Branson nods, swallowing the mouthful. "They're a new company, hip, edgy. We need a fresh look at things, someone who's not an old geezer like myself," he laughs at his own joke. "Now, Anderson and I were discussing it, and we think it's you. You're young, but not a baby right out of college. And you've done construction, so you know how buildings really work. And we like your attitude," he points his fork at Ryan, smiling. "That's why I came over here tonight. We want you to take the lead on the Anderson project."

"Thank you, Mr. Branson," Ryan replies, a little breathlessly. He hadn't expected this. A consulting position, maybe, but not lead.

"So you'll do it?"

"Of course," they shake hands, Branson smiling almost fatherly at the younger man. Marissa pours herself another glass of wine.

They don't mention his wife. She's so proud of him, and that's what they focus on. His job, his big break. She tells him over the phone how much she loves him, and he tells her he does too. Except he doesn't actually say it, because she might overhear.

"When can I see you again?" she asks, feeling the familiar thrill go through her. "I want to celebrate."

"Sunday," he answers, lowering his voice. "I'm home alone." She agrees, glancing over at her engagement calendar.

Once they hang up, she calls the salon, canceling her Sunday appointment.

She stretches languidly, enjoying the soft sheets, the light streaming through the window, the weight of him next to her. He nuzzles into her neck, closing his eyes. She runs her hand through his hair, ignoring the pain in her heart. She can't believe their day is almost over; it feels like they've only spent a few minutes together, not four hours. She's tranquil, and she doesn't want to break the comfortable silence, but knows she must.

"Ryan, it's almost two." Her voice is no more than a whisper. He groans, pulling her even tighter against his body, making her heart squeeze painfully. "I have to go." He shakes his head, not releasing her. "She'll be home soon." They rarely acknowledge that he's married, although it's a constant presence in both their minds. Taylor can never say her name, though; she just calls her 'her'.

He lets go of her reluctantly, rolling onto his back and staring blankly at the ceiling. She gets up, pulling on her clothes and ignoring the heavy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Each time she sees him, it gets harder and harder to leave. Each time they cut it closer and closer. In the first days of their affair, she would leave two hours before his wife came home. Slowly, over time, it went to one and a half, one, a half, and now she was usually only mere minutes ahead. If the trend continued, they would get caught.

Sometimes, she almost hoped it would happen.

It's horrible, living like this. Having him, yet not. Having his body, and even his heart, but not having him completely. It kills her, breaks her apart, to think of him with her. So sometimes, she wishes they would get caught. She passes a hand over her belly; sometimes she wishes for a mistake. Even if he didn't leave her, at least she would have a piece of him. Something that was hers completely. Something she wouldn't have to share with another woman.

She turns to look at him one last time, throat tightening, before she leaves. He's still lying on the bed, arms behind his head and staring at the ceiling. She doesn't say anything when she goes.

When she sees them out together, laughing and eating in an upscale restaurant, she barely makes it into the bathroom before her stomach releases its contents into the cold porcelain bowl. For a second, her hopes rise desperately, before she remembers that she just had her period. There's nothing inside her.

She goes back into the restaurant, making excuses to her mother, and rushing out before they see her.

Marissa kisses him, pushing him back into the sheets. He closes his eyes, and all he can see is her. Guilt and excitement flood his veins. She takes no notice. She never notices anything about him anymore. Their sex is nothing more than a release mechanism, a way to blow off tension after work. Afterwards, she takes a shower and settles down to do work. He falls asleep and dreams about her.

She feels like there's a gaping hole where her heart should be. When she walks into the crowded diner and sees him, she begins to lose her nerve. He catches her eye, and she walks over to him.

"Hey," he whispers, catching her hand. She pulls it away, and he looks at her curiously.

"I can't do this anymore." She doesn't mean to say it without preamble, but she has to get it out. If she doesn't do this quickly, she won't be able to do it at all. He doesn't argue with her, just stares. "It's too hard," she continues, knowing he won't fight for her.

It's not how he expected his evening to go. He had expected dinner, then hot sex in some trashy hotel room. Instead, he was going home early, trying to think up excuses to tell Marissa. He had told her he would be gone for at least four or five hours, 'quality time' with some of the guys at work. Now he'll have to say something like 'one of the guys got really sick, so we cut the night short'.

He parks his jeep, getting out wearily, trying not to focus on the idea that he'll never have her again. Never feel her skin against his, never hear her laugh. Never smell her perfume, or listen to her read poetry in French.

He's surprised, though, when he walks in on his wife in bed with some other guy. She's startled, too. He closes the door, and waits down in the kitchen for her.

"So," she starts. Neither of them is angry, but it's a little sad to realize how much they don't care. He remembers when he used to love her, back in high school. She had been the center of his world, and he had clung to her: the one constant in his life. They'd married after college. Seth and Summer had done it, it just seemed logical that they should too.

He'd found Taylor while he was designing an add-on for her company's building. They had gone out to lunch to catch up, laughing over their high school days. It had become a tenuous friendship, and they'd finally slept together after he and Marissa had a fight.

Marissa had met Connor at the design company she worked for, citing him as the only straight man in the place. She'd been cheating on him since before he'd even talked to Taylor. It didn't make him feel justified, though.

"So," she starts, and he smiles at her.

"So I guess this isn't working out."

She nods. "Wanna get divorced?"

It's the easiest conversation he's ever had with her.

She opens the door and finds him there with flowers. "Ryan," she starts, voice cracking and heart breaking even more than she thought possible. "Don't make this harder than it already is." He pushes her aside gently, making his way into her apartment. "Ryan." This time her voice breaks, and tears run down her face. She knows she shouldn't be this needy, this pathetic. She hates when women get all emotional over men, yet here she is.

"Marissa's been cheating on me," he smiles at her, and her heart leaps uncontrollably in her chest. "For a while now. Longer than us."

"That doesn't make what we did right," she whispers, trying to ignore the fact that he's gotten closer to her.

"We're getting divorced," he tells her, sliding his hands around her waist, and she starts to sob. "Baby," his voice wavers, and he leans his forehead against hers, "don't cry. I hate it when you cry," he sounds desperate. She can't speak, can't form words, just shakes her head. "We can be together, if you'll still have me," he tries to joke, and her sobs turn into hysterical laughter. She nods, kissing him sloppily. He tastes like salt, and she realizes it's her own tears.

"Are you sure?" she asks, not wanting to say it, but needing to. "Because if you want time…"

"I don't want time. Marissa and I… we're ok. She's ok with it, and I'm ok with it."

"I know, but what will people think?" her laughter turns into sobs again.

"I'm from Chino," he tries to get her to smile. "Do you really think I care what they think?"

"The Cohens…"

"Sandy already knows about us," he looks a little embarrassed. "And I'm pretty sure Kirsten does too. And Seth and Summer only want what's best for Marissa and I. Plus, everyone already loves you."

They decide not to start anything up again until his divorce papers are signed and filed and official. She tells him she wants to do something properly in their relationship. It's the hardest thing he's ever had to wait for.

Marissa hasn't done the same with Connor, but Ryan isn't angry. In fact, Connor helps Ryan pack up and move Marissa's things out. She's moving into the other man's apartment, since Ryan designed, built, and paid for the house.

The Cohens are surprisingly compassionate. Ryan knew they wanted what was best for him, but he is a little taken aback at how… unfazed they seemed by it.

"We've known it was coming for months," Sandy tells him one day over coffee. "They way you look at Marissa, and the way you look at Taylor…"

Ryan's glad he doesn't have to convince the family that took him in to be supportive. Taylor's happy that they don't think she's a whore and a home wreaker.

Three months later, she moves in with him, and they spend the first whole day having sex on every surface in the house. He tells her he loves her every three minutes like clockwork, and she repeats the sentiment with equal feeling.

"So you're the baker?" Branson grins, shaking Taylor's hand. She nods, dumbfounded, at how accepting he is. It's only been six months since Ryan's divorce, but people are acting like the two had never been married at all. Branson knows she had been with Ryan while he was married, but he doesn't look at her with judgment-filled eyes. "I was wondering why the tortes from that bakery didn't taste half as good as the one Atwood served."

Ryan ducks his head, grinning at the floor. The company party is going better than he imagined it would. He expected there to be tension when he showed up with a new woman, but all the men seemed to know. They all told him that love knew what it wanted, and usually got it, too.

He asks her to marry him on their second anniversary, and she says yes. No one seems surprised when they break the news. Seth even mutters something like "it's about damn time."

Ryan can't agree more.

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