She said nothing, assuming he was using something to mask the scent of cigarettes. A few days later, it happened again—this time a softer, floral smell. Jasmine. Faint but unmistakable. It clung to his shirt in a way she couldn’t ignore. It didn’t smell like him. He never uses floral scents.
That evening during dinner, she brought it up casually. “Your shirt smelled like flowers. New soap?” Connor didn’t flinch. He just shrugged. “Someone at work uses essential oils. It probably rubbed off on me.” It was said so easily, so plainly, that Julia almost believed him. Almost.