The parking garage smells like gasoline and rain. I'm halfway to my car when I see him. Ethan. My husband. Standing beside a silver sedan I don't recognize, his hand resting on the small of a woman's back. She's pregnant. Very pregnant. The kind of pregnant where strangers hold doors open and offer seats. "Baby, you don't have to walk me all the way to the car," she says, laughing. Her voice carries across the concrete, bright and easy. I stop walking. Ethan leans in, says something too quiet for me to hear. She touches his arm, familiar. Comfortable. My feet won't move. I'm standing there with my purse digging into my shoulder and my keys cutting into my palm, and I can't look away. Then Ethan glances up. Sees me. The change in his expression is instant—surprise, then something that might be calculation, then that warm smile he wears like armor. He says something to the woman. She turns, follows his gaze, and her face shifts too. Not guilty. Confused. Ethan walks toward me. Not hurried. Steady. "Natalie." He reaches me, kisses my cheek like this is normal. Like I didn't just watch him touch another woman with the kind of ease that comes from repetition. "What are you doing here?" "I had a dentist appointment." My voice sounds thin. "On the third floor." "Right. Of course." He glances back at the woman, who's watching us now with her hand resting on her belly. "That's Rebecca. She's a colleague from the hospital. I was just helping her to her car—she's on modified bed rest and shouldn't be driving, but you know how stubborn some people are." Rebecca waves. Friendly. Open. I lift my hand in return. Automatic. "Did you remember to take your morning medication?" Ethan asks, his voice dropping lower. Gentle. The tone he uses when he's worried about me. The question lands like a slap. "I took it," I say. "Good." He squeezes my shoulder. "I worry when you forget. You know how foggy you get." The woman—Rebecca—gets into her car. Ethan watches her go, then turns back to me with that same concerned expression. "Are you feeling alright?" he asks. "You look pale." I should ask him why a colleague calls him baby. I should ask him why his hand was on her back like that. Instead, I hear myself say, "I'm fine." "Let me walk you to your car," he says, and takes my elbow like I'm the one who needs help.