For two years his gym routine was the one part of his day I never questioned. Then a marketing email I almost deleted answered a question I hadn't known to ask.

He called me "buddy" while he spotted my wife on the squat rack. Months later I faked an illness, moved out of my own home, and waited for the night they'd finally feel safe.

He started tracking his sleep to fix his snoring. One quiet Tuesday morning, I pressed play on the night's recording out of plain curiosity.

My phone buzzed during dinner with a payment request from a number I didn't know. The note attached to it ended my marriage in eleven words.

He always closed the laptop when I walked in. One night he forgot, and a chat channel was still glowing on the screen.

He came home from the rescue smelling of someone else's home. The kibble in the trunk was the first thing that didn't fit.