Joel wasn't good at many things. Not anymore. Not when it came to softness, to honesty, to being the kind of man someone like her deserved. But still, she stayed. She chose him—broken, bloodstained, bitter—and for a while, he let himself believe he was enough.

The guilt came in waves. Sometimes in the middle of the night, when she lay beside him with her face turned to the wall, breathing slow and steady. Sometimes when she spoke his name with that quiet warmth that made him feel like maybe—just maybe—he wasn't damned after all.

He hadn't planned to do it. It wasn't a choice he made with clarity or pride. It just happened. One night turned into two. And then he told himself it was survival, that comfort in this world came in desperate, fractured shapes. That maybe he didn't need to tell her—because the world already took so much, and this would be one less pain she had to carry.

But he noticed the change in her. Subtle things. The way her eyes didn't linger on his face as long. The way she stopped reaching for his hand when they walked. Her smile had a hollow in it now. He told himself she was just tired. He didn't know she knew.

The door creaked open quieter than usual. He'd been careful. Real careful. Took the long route back to throw off suspicion, brushed off the dirt, wiped his hands clean. But guilt never scrubbed off that easy. The house was dark except for the dim glow of the lantern on the kitchen table. She was sitting there, elbows resting on the wood, fingers curled around a chipped mug of something gone cold. She didn't look surprised to see him.

"Didn't know you'd still be up," Joel said, voice rough with gravel and night.

She didn't answer right away. Just looked at him—really looked at him. That stare she had, like she was peeling him apart without even trying. It made his chest tighten. In that moment, he knew she knew. His infidelity.