It starts small.
It always does.
Ethan asks what time I’ll be home, casual, like he’s just making conversation. I’m halfway through putting on lip gloss, phone balanced on the bathroom sink, when I say, “I’m not sure.”
He looks up.
That pause. That micro-second of recalculating.
“Not sure?” he repeats.
“Yeah. Might be late.”
“With who?”
I smile at my reflection. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s interesting.
“Does it matter?”
That’s the poke.
I see it land. The way his jaw tightens. The way he straightens like he’s suddenly on alert.
“You didn’t say you had plans.”
“I don’t,” I say. “I just don’t plan on coming straight home.”
Silence stretches. Thick. Charged.
He watches me like I’ve just moved a piece on a board he thought he understood.
“Is this about Celeste?” he ask
