I returned home just before sunset, pretending I’d been out running errands. Ethan was on the couch, curled under the same blanket, tapping at his phone. I couldn’t tell if he’d noticed my absence. Maybe he assumed I had been quiet, tired, compliant. That had always been his assumption—until now.

I set my bag down silently and walked to the kitchen. I didn’t speak. I didn’t ask questions. I only moved with purpose, as if nothing had changed, but every motion was calculated.

I found his phone on the counter, face down. My pulse quickened. I didn’t touch it, didn’t need to. I knew the name, the patterns, the timelines. He had underestimated the moment he left the house for the afternoon.

Dinner passed in the muted hum of television. I made my own plate, ate slowly, carefully observing. He glanced at me a few times, but never fully met my gaze. Something in his posture had shifted—not fear, not guilt, but calculation. He knew something. Just not how much.