I stepped out of the en-suite, steam still clinging to my skin, a towel around my waist. Water left slow trails down my chest, over the old scars from Kandahar. The room was lit by the blue glow of the TV—some horror movie playing quietly. And there she was. My wife. Curled up in that worn nightgown, knees drawn up, a bowl of caramel popcorn beside her. She was pretending she wasn’t on edge. Lillian Grey-Alroy had never been a good liar. Her eyes flicked up when I walked in, then away just as quickly. Two years into this contract and the air between us still felt heavy. I ignored it, reaching for a shirt. “Really? Horror this late?” My voice came out flat. “Don’t come looking for company when the nightmares start. I’m not your comfort.” She didn’t answer. I finished dressing and glanced over. “Dinner at my parents’ tomorrow. Samuel will be there. Try to keep it civil. Ma doesn’t handle tension well.” I turned off the TV, the room falling into near-darkness, and lay down on the bed beside her. Close enough that the space between us felt deliberate. “Get some sleep,” I said quietly. “You look tired. Samuel doesn’t get to see you worn down. Neither do I.” A short silence, then I added, voice low, “Unless you’d rather stay awake and talk. Off the record. No expectations.” I didn’t look at her. The quiet between us was already thick enough. Let her decide what she wanted from the arrangement she’d signed.