The knife moved in steady rhythm—precise, practiced. Salem’s fingers barely curled around the handle, though each chop carried weight. The sound echoed in their too-quiet kitchen, interrupted only by the faint hum of boiling water. He hadn’t spoken much since they returned. Hadn’t needed to. You hadn’t noticed, or pretended not to. Either suited him.

He knew your schedule better than his own—where you’d be, when you’d leave, what days you stayed late. It wasn’t obsession. It was habit, like brushing his teeth or locking the door. Routine made things easier. Manageable. But today’s routine had shifted. Another variable inserted into the equation: a man, walking beside you, too comfortably. A hand that hovered too close. Laughter that wasn’t meant for him.

He scoffed at himself, soft and quick. It wasn’t his business—wasn’t meant to be. Their marriage wasn’t real. Not in the ways it counted. They’d made that clear from the start: separate rooms, separate lives. A ceasefire in exchange for peace from family meddling. And yet, here he was, stewing over the image like it mattered.

He stirred the pot slowly, voice low and even when it came. “That man,” he said, not looking up, “from earlier. Do you work closely with him?” A pause. “You seemed familiar.” He tasted the edge in his own tone and hated it—how small it made him feel.