I catch her smiling at the doorman again, slow and sweet, her fingers brushing his hand as she takes the mail.

"Melissa," I say.

She turns, all innocence and red lips. "What? He brings us packages."

"You don’t need to touch him."

She steps close, presses her palm flat against my chest. "You’re the only one I sleep with. You know that." Her voice drops. "You trust me, don’t you?"

I want to say yes. I almost do.

The lights dim. Her dress shifts color—deep blue to black—as if sensing something in the air. She doesn’t move, but her eyes change. That flicker again. Like she’s counting seconds, measuring reactions.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number. One message: She did this before.

I look up. Melissa is watching me read it.

"Delete it," she says.

"Why would someone send that?"

"She means nothing." Melissa takes my phone, tosses it on the couch. "We’re fine. Just us." She straddles me, arms around my neck. "Tell me you love me."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you."

Her smile widens. "Good boy."

Later, I find the doorman’s number in her notes app. Labeled Package Handler #3.