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I checked the clock again—10:37 PM. Daniel was home late. Again. The kitchen was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. I sat at the table, hands wrapped around a cold cup of tea. My plate was empty. His dinner, long since wrapped in plastic, waited in the fridge. Three nights this week, he’d slipped in past dinner, excuses vague and hurried. Just like Dad used to do to Mom. I shoved the thought down, unwilling to let it take root. Daniel wasn’t my father. Eight years of marriage had proven that. …Still, the knot in my stomach tightened as the lock clicked. “Em? You still up, babe?” His voice drifted from the hallway. I didn’t answer. I waited until his figure appeared in the kitchen. This man to whom I married for eight years. I knew him by inch. His tie hung loose, sleeves rolled. But it wasn’t his appearance that froze me—it was the scent. Sharp, almost medicinal, like pine mixed with antiseptic. Not his cologne. Not anything familiar. “Hey,” he said, smiling, though the warmth didn’t reach his eyes. “Sorry I’m late again.” “It’s fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “Dinner’s in the fridge.” He pressed a quick kiss to the top of my head and went straight for the refrigerator. The scent clung to him, an invisible thread tying the air around us. “New cologne?” I asked, trying to keep my voice light. He hesitated, microwave door half-open. “Hmm? Oh, no. Hand sanitizer at the office. Been using it a lot.” I nodded, watching him punch in numbers as my stomach twisted into a knot. I felt like throwing up. My father had smelled of perfume when he came home late. The pit in my stomach felt alarmingly familiar. “How was your day?” I tried again as he sat down, steam curling from his reheated pasta. “Busy.” He twirled spaghetti, eyes flicking everywhere but my face—salt shaker, window, ceiling. Every tell I knew, and I noticed them all. He was hiding something.