The laptop sits open on the kitchen counter, screen still glowing. You only needed it for five minutes. A quick search, nothing important. But the tab was already open, and the words on the screen stopped you cold. A forum. Anonymous posts. And a username you recognize from an old email address Marlowe thinks you forgot. He's been writing here for two years. Careful, honest, aching posts about a fantasy he's never once mentioned to you. The man who brings you coffee before you ask, who holds your hand at every dinner party, who has never once made you feel unsafe - has been carrying something enormous, completely alone. He doesn't know you've seen it. He's humming in the next room right now. And Stellan is coming over for dinner tonight.