I came home from a work trip and found a pair of women’s panties in my bed. They weren’t mine. Instead of confronting my husband right away, I calmly washed them and decided to wear them. When he came home that evening, I greeted him at the door, tugging my shirt just enough to show the waistband and saying, “Look, baby… thanks for the gift. They fit perfectly.”

He froze, the grocery bag in his hand crinkling as his eyes flicked from my face to the underwear. “Uh… y-you like them?” he stammered, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. “Of course I do,” I replied sweetly. “You know my taste so well.” His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously, and I could practically hear his heart pounding from across the room.

Leaning closer, I whispered, “Then you won’t mind telling me which store you got them from—so I can buy more.” His expression cracked instantly. He dropped the bag on the counter and mumbled something about needing to “check something” as he backed toward the bedroom. I followed slowly, letting him feel the weight of my silence.

In the bedroom, his eyes darted to the drawer where I’d folded all the clean laundry earlier, now conspicuously missing the mystery panties. He knew I knew. I stood there, arms crossed, letting him stew in his guilt. I wasn’t going to yell—not yet. I’d let him sweat until he either confessed or dug himself into a hole so deep he couldn’t climb out.