I pulled my hand away, dodging her touch. "There's no rush. Since it's a birthday gift, let's save it for the day."
For a moment, her hand hung in the air, her expression faltering slightly before she quickly masked it with another smile. "Alright," she said cheerfully, as if my reaction hadn't bothered her at all.
But I noticed how her gaze lingered on me, searching for something beneath my calm facade.
She didn't find it.
The clatter of pots and pans echoed from the kitchen, mingling with the faint hum of a distant song Alexa often hummed while cooking. She moved with her usual efficiency, every motion precise, graceful. Yet, as I leaned against the doorway, observing her in silence, my eyes couldn't help but linger on the faint, scattered marks just below the collar of her neatly buttoned blouse.
Those marks weren't mine.
I turned on my heel, retreating down the hall. My chest felt heavy, as though an invisible weight pressed against my ribs. In the quiet sanctuary of our bedroom, I grabbed my phone and stared at the screen. The photo of us on the wallpaper—a candid moment from our honeymoon—felt like a cruel mockery now.