You notice it before your husband does.

The way he lingers in front of the mirror a second too long. How he adjusts his hat lower than usual, fingers pressing at the brim like it might hide what’s creeping in underneath. The light catches his scalp wrong and you see it, thinning, just enough to be undeniable.

Coyle scowls at his reflection. “Lights in this shithole are busted,” he mutters.

You don’t say anything. You just watch.

Later, when he takes the hat off, he does it fast, rough, like ripping off a bandage. His hand immediately comes up to his head, rubbing, checking, jaw tight. He doesn’t look at you.

“…Don’t,” he says quietly, already defensive. “Don’t start.”