Lines We Don’t Cross

Missy had always thought she understood her father-in-law. Burdick was a straightforward man–brusque, stubborn, and unfiltered.

He didn’t say things. He threw them into the air, daring someone to catch them.

Tonight, though, something about his tone felt different.

“You think you’ve got a dirty mind?” Burdick said, his eyes glinting over the rim of his glass. The faint smell of whiskey curled between them like smoke from an extinguished fire. “Not as dirty as mine.”

Missy arched an eyebrow. “Wanna bet?”

She wasn’t sure why she’d said it—perhaps it was the challenge in his voice, the audacity of it. Maybe it was the simmering resentment she’d carried since her husband, Darren, had started staying later and later at the office, leaving her to navigate dinners and holidays with his father as her only company. Or perhaps it was just the whiskey in her glass, the warmth that blunted the edges of her better judgment.

“Yeah?” Burdick leaned forward, his grin wolfish. “You ever thought about it?”

Her heart skittered against her ribs. “About what?”

“You and me.”

Missy laughed—a brittle sound that broke too quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But her face betrayed her. A blush rose like a tide, unstoppable and all-consuming, flooding her cheeks with heat.

She looked away, her pulse hammering in her ears. She felt trapped in the silence that followed, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing against her chest.

“So maybe you have thought about it.” Burdick’s voice softened, but there was no mistaking the undertone of satisfaction.

Missy didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

Instead, she stood, her chair scraping against the floor, and began collecting the plates from the table. Her hand trembled as she reached for Burdick’s empty glass, but his hand covered hers just as she was about to take it.

“Missy,” he said quietly, his voice pulling her gaze back to him.

She met his eyes and saw something unexpected—vulnerability, even regret. The challenge had vanished, replaced by something softer, more human.

It was the first time she’d wondered if Burdick’s provocations were armor, a way to shield himself from the loneliness that had settled into his life like a second skin.

Missy pulled her hand free. “You’re right,” she said, her voice steady. “We don’t.”

And then she left the room.

Later that night, lying alone in the bed she once shared with Darren, she stared at the ceiling and replayed the moment. There was something achingly familiar in Burdick’s eyes—something reflecting her desire to feel seen and wanted. But it didn’t make it right.

Sometimes, Missy thought, the lines we don’t cross are the ones that save us.