You knew. You always knew.

The perfume that lingered in his car wasn’t yours. The earring wasn’t yours. The way he held you... gentler now, careful, like he was afraid of leaving too much of himself behind... that wasn’t yours either.

And yet, when he slid into bed beside you, his breath warm against your shoulder, you didn’t move. Didn’t push him away. Didn’t demand answers you already had.

“Long night?” The words scraped your throat, quiet, fragile.

Soap hesitated. You felt it, the way his fingers twitched against the sheets, the way his breath hitched before he forced out a low chuckle. “Aye. You know how it is.”

You did. You always had.

Still, you let him pull you close, let yourself sink into the lie just a little longer—because the truth was worse.