My husband asked me to let my sister be his “wife” for one night. He said it like he was asking me to pass the salt.

Halfway to the landing, she stopped. Not because she heard words. Because she heard tone.

Laughter changed shape when it was safe. It softened. It dropped. It became private.

Carissa turned slowly and looked through the banister.

Damen had lifted his hand to Nikki’s face.

His thumb was brushing the curve of her cheekbone the way it had brushed Carissa’s years earlier on nights when he still looked at her like she was a destination instead of a utility. Nikki leaned toward his hand with her eyes half-closed. Their faces tilted. Their mouths hovered.

They were about to kiss in Carissa’s house, on Carissa’s couch, under the framed black-and-white print Carissa had bought in New York the year she made partner.

A floorboard shifted under Carissa’s foot.

Both of them jerked apart.

And then, instantly, the performance began.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Damen said.

“We were practicing,” Nikki added. “For affection.”

Carissa came down the stairs at a measured pace and sat back in the armchair.

“Of course,” she said. “Affection rehearsal.”

Damen laughed too hard. “Exactly.”

Carissa folded her hands in her lap to hide the trembling. “Good to know.”

She didn’t confront them then.