Chapter 5: Fault Lines

This little conflict blew over by evening.

He texted me around five—"Dinner at home. Your favorite."

When I got home from work, there was hot food on the table, a plate of sliced fruit, and a birthday cake from the local bakery.

He even lit candles, though one toppled over and melted into the frosting. The whole kitchen smelled like vanilla and burnt wax.

He came out holding a bowl of soup, smiling as if nothing had happened. "Just in time, wash your hands and eat. I made your favorite baked salmon."

He’d even set out the good plates, the ones we got as a wedding gift but almost never used.

I lowered my eyes, slowly set my bag down on the cabinet by the door, then looked up and smiled, too.

"Happy birthday."

It slipped out before I could stop it, but the words felt strange in my mouth—like I was congratulating a stranger.

He laughed it off. "Thirty-one—an old man now."

He made a show of creaking as he sat, but I could tell he was relieved I wasn’t angry. We ate in companionable silence, the TV murmuring in the background.

During dinner, he said casually, "Last night I went to lay into Derek, then came right back. I was afraid to wake you, so I slept in the other room."

I wondered if he expected me to thank him. I just nodded, pretending to focus on the salmon, letting the silence stretch between us.

I nodded, saying nothing.

After dinner, as I was getting up, I suddenly remembered something and turned to him:

"I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Why don’t you sleep in the small bedroom for now?"

He paused for a moment.

A flicker of confusion passed across his face—then he nodded.

"Okay."

He gathered his phone and a pillow, heading down the hall. I heard the door click softly behind him, and for the first time in weeks, I fell asleep without waiting for his breathing to steady beside me.

For a while after that, life between Ethan and me returned to normal. I was busy with interviews and onboarding new hires; he was busy launching a new project at his company.

The routines of work and household chores formed a buffer—no fights, no affection, just the steady hum of two lives running on parallel tracks.

As if nothing had happened.

We’re both more rational than emotional. Whatever we do, we weigh the pros and cons.

Friends joked that we’d make great business partners, if only we didn’t have to live together too.

I thought this was the benefit of marrying a rational person.

But soon, I realized I was wrong.

It turns out, logic can’t fix everything—least of all a marriage where something invisible has started to rot.