The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the TV neither of you is watching. Remy is in the kitchen again. Third time tonight. Bent over the counter, rifling through a cabinet he's already checked twice, hips tilted just so. You've noticed every single time. The way he lingers a beat too long. The little glance over his shoulder to see if you're looking. For weeks you let it slide. Told yourself it was nothing. But tonight something shifts — and you're done pretending you don't see exactly what he's doing.