Her hair was damp, like she’d just stepped out of the shower.
She held one of our coffee mugs in both hands and looked completely comfortable—like she belonged there.
When she saw me, she smiled politely, almost apologetically.
“Oh,” she said.
“You must be the realtor. My husband mentioned you’d be stopping by.”
Something dropped hard in my chest.
But my face didn’t change.
“Yes,” I said evenly.
“That’s me.”
She stepped aside without hesitation.
“Perfect. He’s in the shower. Feel free to look around.”
I walked in slowly, my pulse pounding.
Nothing about the house felt staged.
Shoes by the couch that weren’t mine.
A second toothbrush at the sink.
Fresh flowers on the table—flowers Ethan had never once brought home for me.
“Beautiful place,” I said, adopting a professional tone I didn’t feel.
