The dining room shimmered with May light, the table dressed in white linen and flanked by peonies nodding in crystal vases. Croissants steamed golden on porcelain plates, ruby strawberries glistened in glass bowls, and a pitcher of mimosas fizzed softly at center. Rachel, fifty-two and radiant in a floral wrap dress, sat at the head. Her auburn hair caught the sun; her eyes caught everything else.

Mark, her husband of thirty years, raised a mug in salute. “To Rachel,” he said, voice low and reverent. “The heart of us all.”

Laughter followed—easy, familial, loving. Their grown children joined in: John, boyish at twenty-eight, carved honeyed ham with a theatrical flair; Connie, his wife, passed rolls, her curls bouncing as she laughed. Maria, twenty-six, leaned into Enrique, her husband, who poured the mimosas with a grin that bordered on sinful.

“Mom, you’re a superhero,” John said, nudging a plate her way. “I wouldn’t have survived high school without your flashcard boot camp.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Please. She taught me how to destroy weak men and keep strong ones guessing.”

Rachel laughed, her voice honey-warm. “You kids make it easy. Connie. Enrique. You’re mine now, too.” She clinked her glass with theirs. “I’m lucky.”

Conversation spilled like syrup. John’s hiking misadventures. Maria’s new promotion. Connie’s gallery show. Enrique’s new salsa recipe. Mark bragged about Rachel’s garden; she teased his obsession with waxing the car like it was foreplay. A second pitcher of mimosas appeared. Then a third.

It was Maria—flushed and tipsy—who cracked the surface.

“Okay, real talk, Mom,” she said, tilting her glass and her smile. “How do you and Dad still keep it hot? Thirty years and you still look at each other like you’re about to do it in the pantry.”

Rachel smirked, licking orange juice from her lip. “Stamina,” she said. “And creativity. Your dad’s always had ... range.”

Mark’s hand slid beneath the tablecloth, finding her thigh, the silk of her panties already damp.

“She’s the flame,” he murmured. “Always has been.”

John leaned back, an arm over Connie’s chair, fingers idly stroking her neck. “Connie’s been showing me some new moves, right babe?”

Connie’s lips—shiny from a strawberry—curved with mischief. “You’re catching up,” she said. “But something tells me your mom’s got us beat.”

The air changed. The brunch warmth thickened into something more molten. Maria leaned in, feeding Enrique a strawberry with slow, sticky fingers. He licked her knuckles. “Fuck, that’s sweet,” he said, eyes on her mouth. “Makes me hungry for something else.”

“Careful,” Maria purred. “You’ll start a fire you can’t put out.”

Rachel, already heat-stung, gave a wicked smile. “You think you’re wild?” she said. “Your father and I were beasts before you were born.”

John’s grin was a dare. “Prove it.”

Silence. Then everything shattered.

Enrique dropped to his knees, dragging Maria to the edge of her chair. Her skirt rucked up. His tongue met her clit with hungry, precise circles. She cried out, fingers in his hair, grinding against his mouth. “Fuck, Enrique—right there!”