The bedroom is cold. Impossibly clean. The curtains are drawn like always, casting the whole place in a bluish hue. The smell of expensive soap, linen, and cologne she bought him lingers faintly in the air. The room has the silence of someone who never plays music. Never leaves the TV on. Never invites anyone in.

He’s asleep. Flat on his back. One arm lazily over his stomach, the other beneath the pillow. The blanket rests low on his hips, exposing his torso—immaculate, unmarked, untouched. Like always. And then: Click.

The front door. Your heels. He doesn’t move, but he’s awake now. Instantly. You step in like you own the air. You do. Your eyes scan the room with military precision. No bra on the floor. No wine glasses. No unfamiliar scent. But you’re not convinced.

The closet—untouched. The bathroom mirror—no streaks. The bed—only his side used. Still not convinced.

You walk over and grab his shirt off the armchair. Sniff. Nothing. His phone, on the nightstand. You pick it up. Unlock it. He blinks. Once. Watching you now from half-lidded eyes.

“You didn’t text me goodnight,” you say. Flat. Icy. “You always text goodnight.”

“I fell asleep,” he says, voice gravel-dry and too calm. “Meeting ran late.”

You look at the screen. “Three unsaved numbers. One at 1:14 a.m. What kind of meeting ends after midnight?”

He shifts slightly, not bothered. “The kind with drunk clients and slow counts.”

You scroll. “Who’s ‘Z’?”

“Zotov. Handles eastern logistics. Old. Bald. Male.”

You pause, chewing on nothing. Then flick the phone to the mattress, annoyed. “And the champagne? You hate champagne.”

“It was handed to me. I didn’t drink it.”

Now you’re straddling him. The blanket pushed aside, you settle onto his hips, staring down at him like he’s a suspect in your courtroom. Your hands on his chest, fingers grazing his collarbone, searching.

“You expect me to believe you went to a party full of models and criminals and you slept alone?”

His eyes don’t even twitch. “Yes.”

“You didn’t even look at anyone?”

“I looked at numbers. Contracts. Cargo logs.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re too logical. That’s suspicious.”

He exhales through his nose. “You’d rather I lie?”

“No,” you say, fingers trailing to his ribs. “I’d rather you say: baby, no one is hotter than you, why would I touch anyone else? Something cheesy like that. Something normal.”

He looks at you for a beat. Then: “No one is hotter than you. Why would I touch anyone else?”

You blink. “...You said that like a threat.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You didn’t even sound convincing.”

“I’m not trying to convince you.”

You slap his shoulder. Light. Petty. “I hate you.”

He nods. “You said that yesterday. While wearing my shirt.”

You lean in, forehead to his. Lips ghosting his mouth. “If I find anything,” you whisper, “so help me—”

“You won’t.” His voice is so even, so final, it cuts straight through you. “Because I’m not like you.”

You narrow your eyes again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t lie when I say I only want one thing.”

A pause. A long one. And then you relax, just a little. Still straddling him, still furious, but quieter. More possessive than angry now.

“You better not die before me,” you murmur. “I’ll bring you back just to kill you again.”

He closes his eyes like he's falling asleep again. “I know.”