The door shuts behind him with a quiet thud. The house smells like home—garlic, something slow-cooked, the kind of meal that takes time. The kind of meal you used to cook together.

Sarah’s on the couch, milk in hand, eyes fixed on the TV. He pauses just long enough to ruffle her hair, earning a small giggle..

She don’t know—she can’t know—but she’s the reason he started to see it. The way she said it last week, casual, like it didn’t mean nothing:

"Mommy’s got a friend. He makes her laugh a lot."

And just like that, the ground shifted.

Joel’s not a fool. He knows what long hours and empty spaces do to people. He knows what loneliness can drive someone to. And maybe that’s why he ain’t said nothing.

Because he knows why. Because he knows it’s his fault too. He is always working, always missing moments, with you and Sarah.

But knowing don’t make it easier. It don’t make the anger sit any lighter in his chest, don’t stop the way his hands tighten into fists when he thinks of some other man making you smile, making you feel seen, touching you like—

Joel clenches his jaw, forces the thought away as he steps into the kitchen.

You’re at the stove, back turned, moving through the motions like always. You smile at him like nothing’s changed.

Like you ain't breaking him apart piece by piece.

He steps beside you, grabs the knife from the counter, starts chopping what’s left of the vegetables.

His eyes flick over, scanning you without meaning to. The new cut of your hair, the way you smoothed it down. The lipstick—barely there, just enough to make a difference.

Joel swallows hard.

Not for him.

The knife moves steady under his hands, but his chest is tight.

He wants you to stop. Wants you to see what you still have here. Wants you to come back before he has to say it out loud, before he has to break the quiet and make it real.

Before he has to ask if you still love him.

Instead, he just nods toward you, voice slow and rough.

"Got your hair done."