He thought she was asleep. But when he bent down to gather the laundry—her towel was still warm. Damp at the center. And even before he brought it to his nose, something in his gut turned. It wasn’t the faint floral detergent. It wasn’t the humidity of post-shower steam. It was the scent of a man who wasn’t him. Not just any man. A specific one. A singular, foreign heat. A signature. And as he lifted the towel to his face—his body confirmed what her words never said.