Stillwater Departure

"You’re late again."

The words left my mouth before I could soften them. Not accusing, not yet—but sharper than I'd meant.

Ferdinand froze in the doorway, one hand still on the keys dangling from the lock. His coat hung awkwardly on his frame, the collar askew, like he’d thrown it on in a rush.

His smile flickered. “Traffic was a nightmare,” he said, brushing a damp curl from his forehead. “I came straight from the office.”

The lie was subtle, expertly delivered. He didn’t know I noticed how his shoes were dry—bone dry—on a rainy day.

I turned back to the stove, stirring the sauce so fiercely it splattered red across the tile. “I made your favorite. Marinara with the San Marzanos you like.”

Behind me, the sound of him setting his keys in the ceramic dish. The clink was louder than usual.

"You didn’t have to do all this," he said.

I always do, I wanted to say. Every year, every Friday, every time you forget the little things, I’m here making up the difference. But I only smiled, the tight-lipped kind that didn't reach my eyes.

He crossed the kitchen, wrapped his arms around me. His touch was warm but weightless, as if he were already halfway somewhere else.

“You’re tense,” he murmured, pressing his lips to my temple.

"You’re checking your phone a lot tonight." I kept my tone easy, like I hadn’t counted. Three times in five minutes.

"Collins is blowing up the group thread again. The man's a lunatic before presentations." He laughed—too loud, too forced. His hand slid from my waist to my hip, fingers tapping out a jittery rhythm.

He kissed my cheek. It landed flat.

“We still good for tomorrow?” I asked, ladling sauce over steaming pasta. “Maison, seven o’clock.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He smiled too hard, too fast. The kind of smile that says look at me, not look at us.

"Alright. I'm gonna shower before dinner," he added quickly, grabbing his phone again on the way out.

The bathroom door shut with a muffled click.

I set down the spoon and leaned heavily against the counter, my breath catching. For a second, the only sound was the soft bubble of the sauce on the stove and the distant hiss of water from the pipes.

It’s fine, I told myself. He’s planning something. That’s all. He’s distracted because he’s organizing some surprise. That’s what this is.

But then the scent hit me again—perfume. Not mine. Subtle, floral, unfamiliar. And far too expensive for someone who “just worked late.”

I stared at the closed bathroom door. He’s hiding something. And worse, he thinks I’m too naïve to see it.

The next morning, I was in the office early. Too early.

The elevator lights hadn’t even warmed up properly when I stepped out. My shoes echoed through the empty hallway like accusations.

I sat down at my desk, trying to focus. Anything to keep my mind from drifting to last