On the surface, everything appeared to settle. Connor came home at reasonable hours, they chatted over dinner, and laughter—though thinner—still punctuated their conversations. To the outside world, they were healing. But inside their home, a quiet fracture remained, stretching invisibly beneath the surface, waiting for the next pressure point.
Julia couldn’t shake the thought that he’d resumed smoking. The herbal smells, the odd timing—they had to be cover-ups. Still, without proof, every suspicion felt like a landmine. So she said nothing, choosing instead to watch. To wait. To sniff shirts when no one was looking.