Sit up.
Listen.
Another drawer.
Something shifting.
Like someone rifling through stuff.
My stomach tightens for no real reason.
I slide out of bed and pad down the hall.
She’s standing at the sink with the medicine cabinet open, half her body blocking it.
Stuff’s moved around. Mouthwash on the counter. Bandages out.
“Sage?” My voice is still sleepy. “Baby?”
She turns fast.
Too fast.
Cheeks flushed.
Eyes a little wide.
“Oh— sorry,” she says. “I just… I’ve got a bit of a headache. Must’ve been the wine. I was looking for Tylenol.”
“Oh,” I say, stepping closer. “It’s behind the extra mouthwash. Back left.”
She glances. “Right. I just didn’t see it.”
“No problem.”
She smiles, takes two, drinks from the sink.
Totally normal.
Totally fine.
And still…
Weird.
Because Tylenol wouldn’t be in the drawers.
Or the cabinet that low.
But whatever.
Headaches make people dumb.
I wait for her to head back to bed.
Then I step into the bathroom and close the door.
Just habit.
