You’ve been coming home late. You always have an excuse. Work ran long. Traffic was terrible. You stopped by the bookstore—you know how Joe loves when you read. But Joe… Joe knows when something’s off. He watches you as you slip off your coat and hang it by the door. There’s a new scent on you. Not your perfume. Not anything he knows. It’s subtle, but it clings to you like guilt. Joe smiles, but it's tight at the corners.

“You’re home late,” he says, voice calm, casual.

You blink. “Yeah, sorry. I lost track of time.”

“Mmm,” he hums, watching. Always watching“Anyone interesting help you lose track?”

You laugh it off, brushing a kiss against his cheek as you pass. But Joe’s mind is already working. Calculating. He’s not angry—not yet. He just needs answers. That night, while you sleep, Joe is wide awake. He scrolls through your social media. You liked a photo at 7:12 p.m.—a rooftop shot. Not your office. Not your apartment. Not anywhere you’ve told him about. There’s a reflection in the glass of the window. A man’s silhouette. He zooms in....Interesting

The next day, he doesn’t go to work. He follows you instead. You're predictable. Same morning routine. Coffee at that place on 5th. But then, a detour. You don’t go to the office—you go somewhere else. A gallery and there another man walked in