Chapter 2: First Fridays & City Lights

It was the first Friday of the month—our unofficial date night, the one thing we never skipped, even when the rest of life went sideways. Jason rolled over, pinning me to the bed with his familiar weight, the glow from the city streetlights painting his bare shoulders gold.

Even after five years together, I still had to brace myself for his relentless passion. He was all heat and hunger, the kind of man who could make a woman feel wanted when the world outside was nothing but cold concrete. Our bedroom always felt a little wild on those nights—a place where secrets lingered in the shadows between kisses.

As he traced lazy circles down my spine, I forgot every fight, every cold morning—just heat, skin, and the way he made me feel wanted. My nails raked red marks down his back. He hissed, then grinned, catching my gaze like he was daring me to do it again. The way his eyes darkened when he lost control—that was something I never got tired of.

Late into the night, I was so spent I could only cling to Jason as he carried me to the bathroom for a shower. The rumble of a passing subway made the window rattle, but in that moment, all I felt was his breath against my neck. He held me steady, murmuring nonsense into my hair, fingers gentle as he turned on the water. The tiles were cold on my toes, but his body was all warmth and familiarity. Sometimes, I wondered if this was what home was supposed to feel like.

Half-awake, I opened my eyes—only to see lines and lines of text flashing before me. They hovered in the air, neon-bright, like ticker tape scrolling across a Times Square billboard on New Year’s Eve.

[Villainous supporting character gets to eat so well, who’s jealous? Not me, definitely not.]

[Why didn’t we get to see the last scene? Even as a premium subscriber, I can’t watch it?]

[Dear Lord, let me swap places with the supporting character for a one-day trial.]

[Wow, someone’s comments are getting a bit spicy~]

[Isn’t this supposed to be a squeaky-clean couple? Why’s the male lead doing that with the supporting character?]

[Who let this ghost in? Kick them out.]

My already groggy mind snapped awake. I stared at the rapidly scrolling comments, then looked at Jason in disbelief, my heart hammering, hands trembling so hard I almost dropped my towel. I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the impossible scene from my vision.

"Jason, can you see this?" My voice was small and shaky, as if I’d just woken from a nightmare I couldn’t shake.

Jason gently set me in the bathtub and started running the hot water. He looked up, confused. "See what?" He squinted at me, brushing a damp strand of hair from my forehead, like maybe I was just exhausted.

Thinking maybe I was just dizzy from exhaustion, I quickly shook my head. But when I opened my eyes again, the barrage was still there. My stomach twisted; maybe I was losing it after all.

[What’s the supporting character doing? With the male lead right there, how does she still have time to feel sleepy?]

[Understandable, since the book says the male lead does it seven times in one night with the heroine.]

[Just thinking about it makes my back ache, haha.]

[As expected, he doesn’t love the supporting character—not even seven times in one night.]

[Where did you come from? Think you can watch for free?]

[My girl meets the male lead tomorrow, can’t wait!]

[With the male lead’s body, I’d be happy as the supporting character too.]

[+1 +1...]

I stared blankly at Jason. Seven times in one night?

No way. Why has he never done it seven times in one night with me? My mind spun with equal parts amusement and offense; what kind of standard was that, anyway?

Jason tucked me in, lay down on the other side, and as the lights went out, his voice was hoarse. "Go to sleep." The room fell into quiet, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of traffic from down the block.

I grabbed his hand, looking up at him pitifully. "One more time?" I tried to sound sweet, hoping for a laugh.

Jason’s eyes darkened, as if considering. After a long pause, he said, "It’s late. Get some rest." He squeezed my fingers, but his tone was final, the way it always was when he’d made up his mind.

Hmph. He really doesn’t love me—he won’t even let me see how much stamina he really has. I rolled over, pouting into my pillow, listening as he breathed slow and even. For a moment, I wondered if every woman in America felt like this sometimes: not quite the main character in her own marriage.

Eventually, I drifted off. When I woke up, Jason was already at work. The bed was cold on his side, but the faint smell of his aftershave still lingered on the sheets.

But one thing was certain: I really could see those comments flashing before my eyes, constantly reminding me I was just the villainous supporting character. They followed me everywhere, like pop-up ads I couldn’t block.

But I didn’t believe them. Jason and I grew up together. Even if our marriage started as a family arrangement, after all these years we’d treated each other with respect—and our nights were far from lukewarm. I told myself that as I made my morning coffee, watching the sunrise through our kitchen window, the world outside still spinning like nothing was out of place.