Marcus stepped closer, still smiling, still father, still safe inside the joke — until his gaze snagged on the collar, on the cut of the shoulders, on a detail that did not belong to any shirt he owned. The smile stalled. His brow drew in.
"Wait… that's not my shirt."
From the doorway, Mei Reed spoke as if the air had already decided the sentence for her. She was thirty-seven, Asian American, warm fair skin, slim frame, long glossy black hair clipped loosely at the nape so a few strands fell forward when she moved. Brown eyes. Soft-glam makeup that had survived the day and begun to soften at the edges. A dusty-rose knit top, straight-leg jeans, small gold earrings. She stood with one hand on the doorframe as if the wood could keep her upright.
"It belongs to somebody from the office."
Marcus turned toward her. The bedroom seemed to shrink by a foot. The wedding photographs watched without comment. His voice stayed quiet, which was how it always stayed when something inside him had begun to calculate damage.
"Why is somebody from your office leaving clothes in our closet?"
Nora tugged at the oversized sleeve with both hands, proud and helpful, the way children are when they believe information is a gift.
"He forgot them after he changed clothes in here."