It doesn’t arrive like the old storms.
No sirens.
No legal documents.
No headlines.
No betrayal.
It arrives quietly.
In the space between two people who have survived too much to mistake discomfort for danger.
It starts with a question I didn’t expect.
“Are you happy?” Marcus asks one night.
Not casually.
Not philosophically.
Directly.
We’re in the London townhouse kitchen.
Eleanor is asleep upstairs.
Rain presses against the windows.
We just finished dinner.
No tension.
No argument.
No crisis.
Just ordinary.
And then that.
“Of course I am,” I answer automatically.
He watches me.
“That wasn’t automatic.”
I frown slightly.
“What?”
“You answered too fast.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
I cross my arms.
“You think I’m lying?”
“No.”
He shakes his head.
“I think
