The messages weren’t dramatic, not at first. Little in-jokes. A photo of a restaurant she had never visited with him. A single line: “Last night was worth the risk.” Lauren read it twice, three times, waiting for the words to rearrange into something harmless. They didn’t.
When she asked him about it—voice steady, hands not quite—he smiled first, then frowned, then laughed. “You’ve misunderstood, Laur. You always jump to the worst conclusions.” He wrapped her in his towel-damp arms, telling her she was tired, that stress from work was making her see patterns that weren’t there.