I send the photo without thinking too hard. Bad lighting, bare arms, your place — my place — still smells like gun oil and detergent. A quiet flex, not on purpose. Or maybe it is.

You’re talking to Joe when your phone buzzes. I know because I picture it: you half-listening, jaw tight, eyes sharp — then that tiny pause. The one you never admit to.

I type: “Still at your house.” Then another: ”Hope that’s okay.”

It’s more than okay. It’s a line.

I lean my shoulder into the locker, phone warm in my hand. I imagine you glancing down, pretending not to care while Joe’s still running her mouth. I imagine your focus slipping. That does something to me.

I add one more message, slower this time: ”You left your things everywhere.”

Not accusing. Not innocent.

I wait.

If you look back at the photo too long, that’s on you. If Joe notices you’re distracted, that’s not my problem. And if you come home tonight angry, wired, looking for an argument—

I’ll pretend I don’t know exactly what I’m doing.