But he had told himself that at the second. And the third. And the fourth.

Instead, he said: “The marmalade is fine.”

“Mark thinks you should try the bitter marmalade.”

He turned off the light. In the dark, her breathing was soft, innocent, terrible. He reached for her hand. She gave it, even in sleep. That was the real cage—not the betrayal, but the tenderness that survived it.

Outside, a car passed. Maybe Mark’s. Maybe not.