I stared at Olivia’s message until the screen went dark.

“What you asked me for your wife is ready.”

My imagination immediately betrayed me.

Medical records?

Divorce papers?

Evidence that my husband had discovered something terrible about me?

Or perhaps Olivia had helped him prepare something because the two of them were—

Stop.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Julian noticed.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“You’re tense.”

“Maybe your surgery was terrible.”

Silence.

Then he said:

“The procedure went perfectly.”

Of course that was what bothered him.

Not his wife suddenly behaving like a suspicious criminal.

His professional pride.

The next morning, Julian left early.

I waited exactly twelve minutes before calling Maya.

She answered cheerfully.

“Is the patient alive?”

“Olivia texted my husband at midnight.”

Silence.

Then:

“Who is Olivia?”

“The beautiful resident.”

“Oh.”

“He smiles at her.”

“Oh.”

“She said something she prepared for his wife was ready.”

A longer silence.

Then Maya whispered:

“Oh.”

“Stop saying oh!”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That I’m imagining things.”

“You are probably imagining things.”

“Probably?”

“Clara, investigate before you convict him.”

I hated that this was reasonable advice.

At noon, I went back to Riverside for my wound check.

Julian wasn’t in his office.

Olivia was.

The moment she saw me, she smiled.

“Mrs. Foster.”

My internal alarm became louder.

“Hello.”

“I was actually going to call you.”

“Why?”

She reached beneath her desk.

I prepared emotionally for catastrophe.

Then she pulled out a large paper bag.

“This.”

I stared at it.

“What is it?”

“Dr. Foster asked me to help choose them.”

Them?

I opened the bag.

Inside were several loose, soft pairs of shorts.

I looked at Olivia.

She explained:

“He said your usual clothes might irritate the treated area while it heals.”

I stopped breathing.

That was it?

Shorts?

“He asked you to buy these?”

“He couldn’t decide which fabric would be most comfortable.”

She laughed.

“He spent twenty minutes comparing materials online before giving up and asking me.”

Suddenly, yesterday’s mysterious smile made sense.

I felt ridiculous.

Olivia continued:

“He worries about you a lot.”

I almost laughed.

“Julian?”

“Yes.”

“The man who communicates primarily through nodding?”

She looked genuinely confused.

“Dr. Foster talks about you constantly.”

Now I thought she was joking.

“He does?”

“He complained yesterday that you skipped breakfast.”

“That counts as talking about me?”

“He also asked three departments whether your medication could make you nauseous.”

My embarrassment transformed into confusion.

“Why wouldn’t he just ask me how I feel?”

Olivia smiled helplessly.

“That part you’ll have to ask him.”

I left with the bag.

Mystery solved.

Except one remained.

The lights.

That night, I decided I was going to ask.

Julian arrived home at ten.

I was sitting on the sofa waiting.

He noticed the bag.

“Olivia gave it to you?”

“Yes.”

“Do they fit?”

“I haven’t tried them.”

He nodded.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Finally, I said:

“You could have bought them yourself.”

“I didn’t know what to choose.”

“You perform surgery for a living.”

“That doesn’t qualify me to buy women’s clothing.”

I nearly smiled.

Then I remembered my mission.

“Julian.”

“Yes?”

“Why do you always turn off the lights?”

He became completely still.

There.

That reaction.

I stood.

“Every time.”

“Clara…”

“No.”

I wasn’t going to retreat.

“Six months.”

“You barely look at me when we’re close.”

His jaw tightened.

“That’s not true.”

“Then turn on the light tonight.”

Silence.

His expression changed.

Not annoyance.

Something closer to discomfort.

“I’d rather not.”

My heart sank.

“Why?”

He looked away.

That hurt more than I expected.

I forced myself to laugh.

“Am I that unattractive?”

His head snapped toward me.

“What?”

“Forget it.”

I turned.

He caught my hand.

“Clara.”

“Let go.”

“No.”

I looked at him.

For once, Dr. Julian Foster appeared completely uncertain.

“You think I don’t want to look at you?”

“What else am I supposed to think?”

His grip loosened.

“That’s not the reason.”

“Then tell me.”

He didn’t.

I pulled my hand away and went upstairs.

For three days, I barely spoke to him.

Julian seemed equally miserable at communication.

He left fruit beside my laptop.

Changed my dressing without mentioning our argument.

Placed my favorite dessert in the refrigerator.

Every attempt at apology came without an actual apology.

On Saturday, Maya arrived.

She took one look at us across the dining table and whispered:

“You two are exhausting.”

“Thank you.”

Then she noticed something behind Julian.

A photograph on the shelf.

Our wedding portrait.

Maya frowned.

“Was that always there?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

She walked closer.

Then she looked at Julian.

“Dr. Foster, why is Clara’s side of the picture faded?”

I froze.

Julian’s expression changed.

He stood.

“It’s nothing.”

Maya touched the frame.

Then she noticed another photograph.

And another.

All showed me.

But each had been altered by sunlight.

One was nearly colorless.

I turned toward Julian.

“What is this?”

He remained silent.

Maya, sensing something serious, quietly left.

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

Then Julian opened a cabinet beneath the shelf.

Inside were photographs.

Dozens.

Pictures from our dates.

Wedding photographs.

Ordinary photographs I didn’t even know he’d taken.

Me sleeping on the sofa.

Me cooking.

Me laughing at something on television.

My throat tightened.

“You said you didn’t like photographs.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

He closed his eyes.

Then he finally said:

“Because I didn’t want you to know how often I looked at you.”

I couldn’t speak.

“That doesn’t explain the lights.”

“I know.”

“Then explain them.”

Julian walked upstairs.

I followed him into his study.

He unlocked the bottom drawer.

Inside was a small medical file.

He placed it before me.

I looked at the name.

Julian Foster.

The records were from seven years ago.

I didn’t understand the terminology.

But one phrase caught my attention.

Post-traumatic visual sensitivity.

I raised my head.

“What happened?”

His face had gone pale.

“An accident.”

“When?”

“Medical school.”

He sat down.

“There was an electrical fire in one of the laboratories.”

My anger disappeared.

He explained only that bright light had bothered him for a long time afterward.

It had improved.

Mostly.

“But that still doesn’t explain why you turn off our bedroom light.”

“No.”

His fingers tightened.

“That part is psychological.”

I waited.

He looked almost embarrassed.

“I had a relationship before you.”

I knew that.

His mother had once mentioned it.

“She used my discomfort with bright light to humiliate me.”

My chest tightened.

Julian continued quietly.

“So I became accustomed to darkness when I felt vulnerable.”

I reached toward him, then stopped.

He noticed.

For the first time, he reached first.

His hand closed around mine.

“Clara, I don’t turn off the light because I don’t want to see you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because explaining fear is harder than treating an abscess.”

I stared at him.

Then laughed despite myself.

His mouth curved slightly.

There it was.

That rare smile.

For me this time.

I squeezed his hand.

“Next time, just tell me.”

“I’ll try.”

That evening, I thought everything had finally been resolved.

Until someone rang the doorbell.

I opened it.

A woman in her early thirties stood outside.

Beautiful.

Elegant.

Unfamiliar.

The moment Julian saw her, every trace of warmth disappeared from his face.

“What are you doing here?”

She looked at me.

Then smiled.

“You must be Clara.”

I glanced between them.

“You know me?”

“Of course.”

She reached into her handbag and placed an envelope on the table.

“I came because Julian won’t answer me.”

Julian’s voice turned cold.

“Leave.”

She ignored him.

Instead, she looked directly at me.

“Did he tell you about the accident?”

“Yes.”

Her smile vanished.

“Did he tell you who caused it?”

I slowly turned toward my husband.

Julian’s face had lost all color.

The woman tapped the envelope.

Inside was an old photograph.

Julian stood beside her in a medical-school laboratory.

On the back was a date.

And one handwritten sentence:

THE NIGHT JULIAN FOSTER TOOK THE BLAME FOR CLARA WILLIAMS.

My fingers went numb.

I looked up.

“My name?”

The woman nodded.

Then she said the one thing that made the entire room disappear around me.

“You didn’t meet your husband six months ago, Clara.”

Her eyes shifted toward Julian.

“He has known who you are for seven years.”