(Seraphina POV)

My husband smells like my cousin's shampoo, and he doesn't know I can tell.

I've been blind for four months. Can't see a thing. But honestly? Since I lost my eyes, my wolf has been working overtime. I can hear Damian's left foot drag a half-second slower than his right. I can tell what room he's in by how the air moves. I can count every second of his shower by the pitch of the water.

And I can smell jasmine on his collar from across the kitchen.

Jasmine. Vivienne's brand. Same one since college.

The front door opened at 6:47. Two sets of footsteps. Damian's I'd know in my sleep. Heavy, confident. The other pair lighter. Short heels. Quick clicks on the hardwood.

"Sera! We're back!"

Vivienne. My cousin. She'd been coming over a LOT lately. Three times this week, and it was only Thursday. Cooking for me, reading my mail, helping me get dressed. She'd drop everything to come take care of poor blind Sera.

Best cousin in the world, right?

She dropped onto the couch next to me. Shoulder against mine. Grabbed my hand and squeezed.

"Did you eat the soup I left?"

"Yeah. It was good."

"You have to eat more, Sera. You're getting so skinny."

She smelled like jasmine. Same perfume. Same hand lotion. Same mint gum she popped every twenty minutes like clockwork. But there was something else. Something warm and heavy sitting under all of that. Like skin heat that had soaked into her clothes from being too close to another body.

That exact same warmth was on Damian when he kissed my forehead. Fast. Dry. Done. That kiss used to be on the mouth. It used to last longer. But I guess things change when your wife can't look you in the eye anymore.

I'd noticed the scent thing three weeks ago. Told myself it was the car. Windows up, AC on recycle, bodies in a small space. That's all it was.

My wolf didn't agree.

But what was I going to do? Say "hey, you two smell too much like each other"? I'm blind. I'm dependent on both of them. Vivienne has literally been keeping me alive since the accident. I'm not going to accuse my favorite cousin and my husband of something based on how they smell coming through the front door.

So I sat there. And I smiled at nothing. And I said, "What's for dinner?"

Vivienne made pasta. I sat at the counter tearing basil leaves. That's basically the only thing I can do in the kitchen without slicing my hand open. Damian set the table. Three plates, three glasses. Normal family dinner.

Then I reached for his hand across the table.

He pulled away.

Not in a big obvious way. He grabbed his water glass instead. Made it look totally natural. Nobody watching would've caught it.

But I wasn't watching. I was feeling. And I felt his arm go stiff the second before he moved. That tiny hesitation, like his brain had to decide real quick: let her touch you, or don't.

He chose don't.

"Great pasta, Viv," I said. Same voice as always. Normal Sera. Happy Sera. Grateful Sera.

After dinner I sat in the living room. Blanket on my legs, audiobook in one ear, other ear on the house. This is what my evenings look like now. Half listening to someone else's story, half listening to my own.

Damian went to his study. Door closed. Vivienne cleaned up. She hummed while she loaded the dishwasher.

Then the humming stopped.

Footsteps on the kitchen tile. Not going toward the front door. Going the other way. Down the hallway. Toward the study.

I pulled my earbud out.

The study door opened real slow. Like someone trying not to make noise. Then it clicked shut.

Voices. Low. Soft. Close together. Not the way you talk to someone across a desk. The way you talk when you're standing right next to someone and you don't want to be heard.

Four minutes. Maybe five.

The study door opened again. Footsteps back to the kitchen. Faucet on. Humming picked right back up. Same song, same exact spot. Like she'd just paused to ask him about the electric bill.

"I'm heading out!" Vivienne called. "Need anything?"

"I'm good. Thanks for dinner."

"Love you, sis."

"Love you too."

Front door. Car engine. Tires on the driveway. Gone.

Damian came to bed around ten. Showered first. Fourteen minutes. Came out smelling like soap and nothing else. Fresh. Clean.

"Goodnight, love."

"Night."

He was out in twenty minutes. Deep, even breathing. A man sleeping with a perfectly clear conscience.

I reached over to his nightstand for my water glass.

My fingers found a hairpin instead.

Small. Metal. A little flower at the end. Tiny layered petals. A rose.

I don't own rose gold hairpins. Mine are silver. Plain. Target. Twenty in a pack for four dollars.

Vivienne wears rose gold. With little roses. I'd seen them in her hair a thousand times before I went blind. I'd felt them press into my shoulder when she leaned her head on me during movies.

Now one was on my husband's nightstand.

I rolled onto my side. Away from Damian. Squeezed the hairpin so hard the little rose cut into my palm. Held it under the blanket where nobody could see my fist shaking.

Under the soap. Under the clean pillowcase.

Right there. Jasmine. My cousin's shampoo. On my husband's pillow.

Funny thing about going blind. Four months ago I had two perfectly good eyes, and I didn't see a damn thing.

Now I can't see at all.

And I'm starting to see everything.