When she finally slides into bed, the mattress dips. She's freshly scrubbed, but under the soap is the faint ghost of that same cologne. Stubborn and familiar to a man who works around stubborn smells for a living. She exhales carefully, like someone pretending to sleep. Within minutes, her breathing evens out for real.
I stay still, staring at the ceiling. I don't shake her awake. I don't confront her. I don't ask a single question. Instead, I commit the entire night to memory.
Time of text. Time of door. Length of shower. The lie about Sarah. The scent in the sheets.
Tomorrow, it all gets written down. Tonight, the war just moved from the rooftop to my dining table. Morning comes with that gray Chicago light that makes everything look honest. Monica is at the stove acting like a commercial, eggs, toast, gentle humming. I sit at the table with my coffee and my face set to normal.
"You were out late," I say casually.
She shrugs, fake tired. "Yeah, Sarah wouldn't stop talking. You know how she is."
I nod like I've known Sarah for years. "Yeah. I'll have to meet her sometime."
She doesn't answer that. Just slides a plate in front of me and kisses my head. I log it. Repeat of the lie. Avoidant eye contact.
Extra affection. More data. At work, Derek walks in late. Hungover arrogance all over him. He scans the shop looking for damage.
His eyes land on me. "Miller," he calls. "Rough night?"
I turn from the truck I'm checking and wipe my hands. "Everyone handles things differently," I say. "Some people make noise. Some people solve problems."
He squints, thrown off for half a second, then smirks. "As long as you know your place, we're good."
"Yeah," I answer. "Place is important."
Midday, I clip a tiny button recorder to my shirt under my jacket. Nothing dramatic, just another tool. I catch Derek in the hallway. "Got a minute?" I ask. "I want to clear the air."
The tool storage room's empty. His ego can't resist. "Sure, buddy. Let's talk."
The tool room smells like oil and metal and dust. Home turf for me. Just another room for him. I close the door behind us. "Look," I start calmly. "I'm not here to swing at you. I just want straight answers."
"How long has this been going on with Monica?"
He leans back against a shelf, relaxed. Being trusted with another man's humiliation feels good to him. "A couple of months," he says. "Three, maybe. Started casual. She was bored. You know how it is."
The recorder in my jacket blinks red. "What's she to you?" I ask. "Serious or just something to do?"
He laughs. "Worth the risk. She's fun. And it's about the principle, man. Some guys are born to run the show. Some guys are background. No offense."
"None taken," I say. "So this was about proving you're the real man."