You step inside, shutting the door behind you as quietly as possible. It’s late. Too late. The kind of late that doesn’t come with good excuses anymore.

The house is dim, the only light spilling from the kitchen. You spot his work boots by the door, his jacket slung over the back of the couch. He’s home.

Your stomach knots.

You toe off your shoes, move carefully down the hall, but when you reach Sarah’s room, the door is already shut. He put her to bed. Again.

You exhale, slow and steady, and make your way to the kitchen.

Joel is there, standing by the sink, one hand gripping the edge of the counter. A half-empty beer sits beside him. He hasn’t taken off his flannel yet, just rolled up the sleeves, forearms tense under the kitchen light.

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just stares at the sink like he’s thinking real hard about something. Then—

"I preferred it when ya didn’t make it so damn obvious."

It’s not angry. Not loud. Just tired. Worn down, like the words are dragging something heavy behind them.

He finally looks at you, slow and deliberate, and it makes your stomach sink. Because you see it.

He does not look like a man admiring his woman.

Like a man taking inventory. Like he’s noticing the way you smell faintly of cologne that ain’t his. The way your hair is done nice for a day that was supposedly too busy.

He knows

He doesn’t wait for you to answer. Doesn’t give you a chance to. Just pushes away from the counter, steps past you with slow, steady strides, disappearing down the hall with his beer.