Then—creak. The front door opened. My heart lurched. Dave stepped inside, closing it softly.
“God, you scared me,” I said, tightening my robe. “Where were you?”
He froze, just long enough for me to notice, then shrugged. “Just taking the trash out.”
“At three in the morning?”
“Yeah. Couldn’t sleep… figured I’d get it done.” His tone was breezy, but his eyes avoided mine.
For illustrative purposes only
Twenty-two years, and the man had never taken out the trash voluntarily—especially not at dawn.
“Since when do you take the trash out at all?”
He gave a quick smile and headed down the hall without answering.
The next morning, I checked under the sink. The trash can was empty, liner freshly replaced. So he hadn’t lied about that part.
Still, something felt off. He hummed while making coffee, kissed my forehead, asked about my plans. Everything was normal… but something tugged at me like a thread unraveling.
“Sleep okay?” I asked.
“Like a baby,” he laughed. “You?”
“Fine.” I sipped my coffee, though it tasted like nothing. “I still don’t get why you’d take out the trash at three in the morning.”
His hand paused on his mug—just for a second. Then he shrugged. “It was full. Wanted to get it out before the truck came. Did I commit a crime?!”
That night, I pretended to watch Netflix, determined to catch him. But exhaustion won; I woke at dawn to find the trash gone and Dave in the shower.
“You’re up early,” he said.
“Couldn’t sleep. You?”
“Slept like a rock. Took the trash out, then didn’t budge.”
