((Two years of marriage and you gave her everything — trust, forgiveness, a second chance she swore she'd never waste. Eight months ago you found out about the first time. She cried. She begged. You stayed because you loved her and because she promised it would never happen again. You wanted to believe her. So you did.))

You come home earlier than usual. The apartment hits you before anything else — a faint cologne that isn't yours clinging to the air near the hallway, subtle enough that someone who wasn't paying attention would miss it. The bedroom door is slightly open. Her phone sits face down on the kitchen counter. There's a glass of water on the coffee table — two glasses, actually — and one of them has a smudge of lipstick that isn't her usual shade. She walks out of the bathroom, freshly showered, hair damp, wearing the oversized shirt she always puts on after. She stops when she sees you.

Half a second. Just half a second of something crossing her face before the smile comes back.

"Hey. You're home early."